


Wild Cards

by charcoaleyes



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: 1980s, 1990s, 2000s, AU, Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Arguing, Best Friends, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Canonical Child Abuse, Competition, Fainting, Family Drama, Family Issues, Father-Son Relationship, Feelings, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Bottoming, First Time Topping, Friendship, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Intercrural Sex, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, Loneliness, M/M, Marriage, Masturbation, Motorcycles, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Racing, Rutting, Talking, The Walking Dead AU, Violence, alternative universe, the walking dead - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-05-03 16:44:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 153,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14573229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcoaleyes/pseuds/charcoaleyes
Summary: Rick Grimes and Daryl Dixon meet as teenagers when they both race in the junior category of the US Superbike Championship.Quickly they learn that just as quickly as friends can turn to rivals, love can turn to hate.The question is, can it turn back again? Even if it takes decades?





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing a Rickyl motorbike racing AU has been on my mind for a while. I know roughly what happens in each chapter and how the story is going to play out. I aim to post a chapter a week, and I have the first few written already to give myself a head start!
> 
> Just a few points on the actual racing:  
> * The US Superbike Championship is a fictional series that I made up. It assumes that the boys will travel from track to track all over the US.  
> * It's loosely based on the British Superbike Championship but I have taken a LOT of creative licence.  
> * I've made it have three categories - a Junior Championship, a Supersport Championship, and a Superbike Championship, which is the main one. Each category has bigger, more powerful bikes and more prestige.  
> * The normal race weekend is for practice sessions on Fridays, qualifying on Saturdays, and the races on Sundays.  
> * No technical knowledge of racing or bikes is needed for this one, but any questions please do ask!
> 
> Other points to note:  
> * At the beginning of this story, both Rick and Daryl are 13 years old.  
> * I love them both dearly and am sorry for the things I plan to put them through.  
> * I can be found at charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com where I might post ficspiration stuff and/or excerpts.

_Rick smiled, and leant down towards the small girl in front of him. Her eyes were wide with nerves, and her green baseball cap sat on her head a little crookedly. It was too big for her, really. Made for a teenager, not someone who couldn't have been any more than seven years old. Her hands were shaking as she brandished an iPhone at him._

_"You want a selfie, sweetheart? What's your name?"_

_She nodded, and told him that her name was Caitlin. Rick went down onto his knees, giving an audible grunt as his battered bones twinged in complaint, and smiled as she photographed the two of them._

_They both stood up and Caitlin thanked him._

_Rick bent down towards her once more, pressing a kiss to her cheek. He pointed to the proud-as-punch man standing a few feet away._

_"Thank **you** , sweetheart. That photo for you or for your daddy, huh?"_

_The man's cheeks flushed with colour and he cocked his head to the side in admission._

_"Yeah, yeah. Caught out. That's why I had a kid, y'know. Good excuse to finally get The Python's autograph. My name's Paul, by the way." He took a few steps forward in Rick's direction, holding his hand out. Rick took it, pretending not to notice the clammy hotness of the other man's palm._

_"Been a fan for years, Mr Grimes."_

_"Thanks, man. I appreciate it." Rick whistled through his teeth. "But jeez, I haven't been called that nickname in years."_

_The girl's father babbled in his ear about days gone by that Rick really didn't want to think about. About races won, races lost, death and glory, and everything in between. And about... well, about **that**._

_"Passing the support down the generations, man," Rick heard him say, pointing animatedly to Caitlin's baseball cap. "My girl is a big fan of Carl's, she's been telling me all week how he's going to win, how he's going to overtake everyone on that track just like you used to do, and... "_

_"Great, he'll really appreciate the support," Rick said through clenched teeth as he made a point of looking at his watch. The old Rolex glinted under the blazing hot Atlanta sun. "And speaking of which, I need to get back to my boy, so... "_

_"Oh of course, of course!" Paul waved his hands up. "You gotta help Carl prepare, I get it. Especially now that he has even more competition."_

_Rick had been slowly yet deliberately backing away, but stopped, his eyebrow raised._

_"More competition? What do you mean?"_

_Paul grinned, quickly pressing the screen on his iPhone and frantically scrolling._

_"You need to join Twitter, Mr Grimes. The US Superbike hashtag is blowing up right now. Holy shit, I never thought I'd see the day..."_

_He held the screen up so Rick could read the rapidly moving timeline of tweets._

_Well, **fuck**._

_* * *_

_**Thirty years previously** _

"Thirteen is old enough to be making your own damn lunch, kiddo."

"But dad... "

Richard Grimes put his hands on his hips and pointed to the refrigerator in the kitchenette of their large motorhome.

"Just for whining, you can make a sandwich for me as well."

Rick tutted, rolling up the sleeves of his black and white baseball shirt as he opened the drawer to find a knife.

"Mayo, dad?"

"Always."

Rick rolled his eyes but allowed himself a small smile once his father's back was turned. He slathered four slices of bread in mayonnaise, placing ham and cheese on them. He squashed more slices down on top with his palm, and handed one to his dad. They ate in silence, contentedly.

Rick made to grab a tin of coke, and his dad shook his head, wagging a finger at him.

"Plenty of water. No fizzy shit."

"The race isn't for another two hours."

"Good point. Have even _more_ water."

Rick shoved the last of his sandwich into his mouth, thinking about opening a pack of cookies, but he knew his dad would never allow him. He was about to compete in the last race of the National Junior Superbike Championship, and he'd made a bet with his dad that if he got a podium, he could get a new motocross bike. This was an important day. More than any day he'd ever had in his short life to date.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and his dad's gruff voice.

"You had a great rookie season, Rick. No matter what happens today. Got it?"

"Got it," Rick smiled, unused to such a show of emotion from his normally stoic father. "I really want that podium though, dad. You think I'll do well today?"

Rick didn't hear his father's response due to the loud engine noises coming from the paddock outside, the area where all the teams parked their motorhomes, and riders and team bosses alike mingled, socialised, and thrashed out contracts and business deals. The roars of a moped engine were interspersed by the sound of a woman whooping and a man hollering.

Rick moved the wooden blinds on their motorhome window to one side with a fingertip, peering out. He immediately started laughing at the sight of a shirtless, shaven-headed rider zipping up and down the paddock, cigarette dangling from his lips and a girl in a US flag bikini on the back, her arms raised above her head and her breasts bouncing up and down as she squealed. Rick stared at her tanned skin momentarily, the world of tits and long blonde hair and whatever else girls had that was so enticing still all entirely alien to him.

"Wish I could have you on the back of my bike for the race later, sweet cheeks. Yes sir. Yes I do. I'd do each lap a second quicker knowing I had you to bang once I got my winner's trophy, uh huh."

Rick stifled a laugh and couldn't help thinking that he'd just found a personal hero.

He felt his dad's presence behind him, watching the whole spectacle now too.

"It couldn't be..." he murmured in disbelief.

"Who is it, dad?"

"About time the main superbike championship stopped letting any idiot race under a damned wild card," was the only response he got.

Rick knew about wild cards; entrants who didn't normally compete in a championship but were sometimes allowed to take part in one race because they had local knowledge, or had paid to. There weren't many in the junior championship that he raced in, but in the larger categories – Supersport (where he was _dying_ to move up to) and the main Superbike championship that his dad had won in, now and again you'd see a rider appear under a wild card – and usually fail.

He heard the motorhome door slam, and watched as his dad approached the rider making so much noise and causing so much disruption. Rick, naturally inquisitive, went outside too for a better view.

The mystery rider was now kissing the girl in the middle of the paddock, talking loudly and lewdly about precisely what he was going to do with her that evening. A small crowd of spectators had formed, Rick's dad at the forefront.

"You're Will Dixon's boy," he nodded, realisation seeping into his voice. Rick had never heard that name in his life.

"That I am, sir. That I am," the rider replied. "And who might you be?"

Rick heard the gasps of the crowd. His father wasn't an arrogant man, had never once said _Don't you know who I am?_ But the thing was – people _did_ know who he was. To think that someone would ask that question was practically blasphemous in these parts.

His dad said nothing, and Rick started to feel uncomfortable. The cold anger of his father, on the rare occasions it appeared, was more frightening than any hot explosion of rage.

"I'm a concerned parent," Richard finally replied, an icy tone in his voice. "My son is riding today, as are a lot of younger kids, and you're disturbing the peace."

"Disturbing the peace, my ass," Merle cackled, getting back onto his bike. The girl sat back down behind him and wrapped her thin, tan arms around his waist. "It's a fuckin' bike paddock, _Mr Grimes_. Surely in your day it was noisy too. Maybe you're just gettin' too old for this shit."

With that, he was gone. Rick loved his father, he was strong and kind and supportive. But man, if that hadn't given Rick a little thrill. The blatant disrespect for one of the sport's legends; the devil may care attitude; the complete lack of preparation for the race ahead. But something told him that Dixon was going to be a name he'd be hearing a lot of from now on, and Rick couldn't deny it. He was _excited_.

Rick and his father went to prepare for the race. He could sense that his dad's mood had darkened since his encounter with Merle, and Rick asked tentatively who he was.

"Bad news, that's who," was the reply. Richard's face softened. "Back when I was racing, Will Dixon hung around these paddocks like a bad smell."

"He a racer too?"

"He tried. But he wasn't up too much. Fast, sometimes, sure. But _dirty_. He'd take you out of the race if he couldn't get past you. Ended up getting banned after he broke another rider's spine and put him in a wheelchair for life."

"What happened then?" Rick had heard most tales of his dad's career, but this was the first time he'd heard about Will Dixon.

"He took up rider management, kids around your age. His team folded after half a season. Too many women, too much drinking, pissed too many people off. And the money ran out, what money he had. Not that that money came from any legal means."

Richard stopped talking, as if he'd said too much. Then he stared at Rick, a curious look on his face.

"Well, I guess you're old enough now, kid. The Dixons go racing with drug money. With Will, it started off with moonshine, as odd as that might sound to you. But he's from real Scots-Irish Appalachian stock, proper woods-people. You wouldn't know the type, Rick, not with the nice upbringing me and your mom gave you – but they deal in all kinds now... crystal meth, mostly. Or so I've heard from paddock gossip, you know what it's like. I thought I'd seen the last of that lot a long time ago, but I guess his boy Merle has taken up racing now too. I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose. They're all lunatics, the lot of them."

"At least Merle is only a wild card," Rick tried to get rid of the concerned look on his dad's face. "Maybe he's only here 'cause we're in Atlanta."

"You're right," Richard nodded, ruffling Rick's hair. "Let's not talk about them anymore, you have a race to do. But Rick?"

"Yes?"

"If this is more than a one-race thing, I don't want you anywhere near anyone with the surname Dixon, you hear me?"

"Yes dad."

*

Rick gave himself his usual pre-race pep talk in the mirror. _Don't lose your head. Just think about the next corner. Be aware of who's around you._ As always, his pupils were blown wide with adrenalin and nerves. Also, one of these days he was going to have to get his hair cut. His dad would protest, had told him many times that he should be proud of his Grimes curls, so like his grandma had had, but it was just too hot under a helmet. They stuck to his head, and itched like crazy, clinging to the back of his neck uncomfortably. Shane mocked him, said his brown curls made him look like a girl, but it was alright for _him_ – Shane's dad had given him a buzzcut that made him look at least three years older, not to mention impossibly cool.

Rick was still trying to control his hair with some water from the tap and a comb when Shane bounded through the door, helmet in hand. He had his leathers on, the characteristic red and white colours of Grimes Racing, and his dad's dogtags dangling from his neck.

"Hey Rick, some idiot's out there asking if anyone has a pair of spare gloves."

"Who?"

Shane shrugged. "No idea. Never seen him before. Looks like he's snuck his way in, doesn't look like he could afford a ticket to watch, let alone a bike of his own."

"He a wild card?" Rick asked, thinking about Merle Dixon.

"Guess so." Shane cracked his knuckles impatiently. "You got 'em or not so I can get rid of him? He's giving me the creeps."

Rick furrowed his brow. Maybe his dad would be mad for giving away their stuff, but he figured he'd get them back at the end of the race. And anyway, his dad had raised him to be fair and kind to others. Surely that mattered even in competition? He rifled through the holdall that held all of his gear, and found a pair of brand new black and red goatskin racing gloves. He bit his lip in thought, then handed them to Shane.

"Make sure you tell him I want them back, okay?"

"Okay."

*

Rick's heart always beat so hard on the grid that he thought he'd die before the race started. He'd _sweat_. Sweat so hard he was always surprised that he didn't have to wring his leathers out at the end of every race. But then, the race would begin, his heart would be fit to be bursting until he got through the first corner, and suddenly calm would descend. He'd begin to hear his dad's voice in his head. _Cold and clinical, cold and clinical._

He knew that team owners of the next category up would be watching them all, and maybe him most of all, because of whose son he was. It just made Rick more determined to move upwards through merit. He wanted to be _Rick_ , not Richard Grimes Jnr.

This track was one of his favourites – long straights and fast turns. The straights gave him plenty of time to think, to consider his next move. Like his dad had always told him, he tried to be aware of who was around him. Ahead, he could see the white and red striped bike that was identical to his own – it was Shane, in third place and gunning for second, or even the win. In his mirrors, Rick couldn't see anyone behind him. That was good; it meant that he was more than a corner ahead of the rider behind him.

Five more laps. He had five laps to get onto the podium, and get a new motocross bike. He was a simple guy, and in a way, he was more excited by that than the prospect of impressing a team owner enough to take him up to the Supersport championship.

Rick's blood was rushing through his ears as his mantra went through his head. _Cold and clinical_. He focused on the back of Shane's bike, which was closer than it had been a few corners before. Soon, he could see the back of his teammate and friend's exhaust. Rick knew that Shane could be a hothead, that he was fast but used his mind a little less than Rick. He'd have screwed up his tyres laps ago trying to chase down the leaders, and Rick knew that in a lap's time he could pounce.

Suddenly, Shane's bike wobbled as he fucked up a corner, feeling the pressure of Rick being so close behind. _Sorry buddy_ , Rick thought, as he took his chance and overtook for third.

It was plain sailing after that, as much as a bike race could be. People were already crediting Rick with having the same level head that his father had had, and with races like these, he could understand why. He kept his calm for the remaining four laps, three laps, two laps. Then it was eight more corners, seven more corners, six... five... four...

He punched the air as he crossed the finish line for his first ever podium. Sure, it wasn't a win, but he was a rookie, he wasn't on the best bike, and most importantly in motorsport, he'd beaten his teammate. Even as Rick slowed down, he was already dreading the uncomfortable moment when he'd have to look Shane in the eye and know he'd beaten him fair and square. They were both bad losers, they had to be in their sport, but Shane never got over defeat as quickly as Rick did. There was always some excuse with him – the bike was bad, the tyres had been useless, the track was in bad condition. At first, Rick had believed the excuses, but as the season had gone on, he was starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was the better racer.

The slowing down lap was the time to wave to the spectators and to the people on the pit wall celebrating, and to save fuel. Rick always used it to shout inside his helmet, whether from anger or celebration. He rode past Shane, edging as close to his bike as he could to give him a congratulatory slap on the arm – fourth place was still great after all – but Shane didn't reciprocate. Rick winced and decided to avoid his friend until he'd calmed down, although knowing Shane, that would take a good day and a half.

As Rick was about to pull into the pits, he saw a bike at the side of the track. It had clearly broken down or run out of juice, and the rider was throwing his arms up in anger, before giving the bike a swift kick right in its tank. Rick laughed lightly under his breath. Yeah, they'd all had days like those. He couldn't place the rider, though. He knew everyone's helmet and bike livery, but this guy he had never seen before. His bike was grey-coloured and battered looking, in comparison to the others, and his helmet was pure black.

Rick rode past, then glanced back. The rider was wearing his gloves.

*

Richard Grimes wasn't one for hugging, but he almost hugged Rick to death when they both got back to the motorhome. He hadn't done it after the podium when crowds had been watching, but in private was a different matter. Rick's face was glowing bright red thanks to all the embraces, congratulations, and praise from his dad. It would only last so long before the _Don't let this get to your head_ , _there's still lots to learn_ speeches started, but just for today he would lap all of this up.

He showered, changed into clean jeans and a black t-shirt, and stuck a Grimes Racing cap on his head. He felt amazing. The only cloud hanging over Rick's head was Shane, who hadn't been seen since the end of the race. His dad knew him too well, and pointed out of the window.

"He's in the van, I think, kid."

"Thanks dad."

Rick wasn't sure what he was going to say to Shane, he certainly wasn't going to apologise for beating him, that wasn't the racer's way. He took his time walking down the paddock, half-hoping for a glimpse of Merle Dixon before the main race began, but then he remembered the girl he'd been with, and with blushing cheeks imagined that Merle was maybe having sex with her somewhere. And that was something that Rick definitely didn't have any experience of.

People called out to him as he walked along. _Good job, Rick!_ And _Chip off the old block, huh?_ Then there was a _Hey, you Rick?_

Rick turned around, not recognising the quieter voice he'd just heard. A young man around his age stood there, holding out a pair of gloves. _His_ gloves. Rick noted that the boy was exactly the same height as him, but in leathers that were at least one size too big, and boots that were too scuffed to be race-worthy. Like Rick, his eyes were blue, but unlike Rick's, they weren't wide-eyed with wonder. They were narrow, suspicious, and what's more, they wouldn't meet Rick's.

"I'm Rick, yeah."

"These your gloves?"

The boy's accent was thick, gruff, with more of a twang than Rick's. His fair hair was long, sweaty and messy, and suddenly Rick realised that he was the rider who'd been kicking the almighty shit out of his bike at the end of the race.

"Yeah. You the one that Shane gave these to earlier?"

He bit his lip and nodded shyly.

"That the asshole's name? _Figured_ they weren't his own gloves. Didn't seem the type, y'know."

Rick couldn't help but laugh.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"Anyway... thanks, I guess." He handed the gloves to Rick.

The word _thanks_ seemed to take ages to come from the other boy's mouth, like it was something that was rarely said in his world.

"Good race, today," he said. His face was bright red as he spoke. Rick wasn't sure how to respond to such abject social awkwardness.

"Thank you. And thanks for bringing my gloves back. Nice to meet you – I'm Rick. Rick Grimes."

"Know who you are," came the sharp reply. But his face softened, and he held out his hand for Rick to shake.

"I'm Daryl. Daryl Dixon."

* * *

_After all these years, Daryl still hated the fuckin' crowds at these things. It was the worst part. Not the nerves, not the risk. This. People._

_Man, he hated fuckin' people._

_Maybe if he ever surrounded himself with people, they'd tell him he was being stupid. But he didn't need anyone to tell him that. His inner voice told him that every fuckin' day. But what had to be done, had to be done, and that was that._

_His ritual was still the same. Music – cigarette – coffee. Frowned upon nowadays even more than it had been in his era. Fuckin' pussies, Merle's voice said. Merle's voice was always in his head. It always had been, whether he was makin' good choices or bad._

_He'd spoken to maybe three other people this entire weekend, and even then, only 'cause he had to. Only person that'd been worth talkin' to had been the kid. The kid was okay. Smart, polite, talented. Daryl had expected nothing less. Hurt some, to look at the kid's face, 'specially his eyes, but what was more pain. Pain was the norm._

_He could hear the tannoy, and it made him feel sick, just like the old days._

_He looked in the mirror, and as usual, didn't like what was staring back at him. Age, scars, regret._

_Fear._

_He thought about the bills that had landed on the welcome mat just this week alone and shook his head. Yeah... some fuckin' welcome._

_Needs must, he thought, and lit up his final cigarette._

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. 2.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Rick listened to more than the vast majority of what his dad told him, but the lecture he'd gotten a year ago about staying away from the Dixons had fallen on deaf ears._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/

_**One year later** _

Daryl watched the '86 Chevy Silverado pull into his daddy's yard. It wasn't often that they saw a decent car around these parts, let alone one that had been brand new the year before. He knew why they were here. The same reason why his dad and Merle were out all hours, why they had undesirable people filtering in and out of their house every day, why sooner or later Daryl himself would get dragged into the whole mess, if he didn't do something to escape, and soon.

 _Racing_ , Daryl would tell himself, when he was lying on a bare mattress on the floor at nighttime. It was easier to convince himself of that, when the clock was long past midnight. His daddy hadn't had the talent, Merle didn't have the dedication. Daryl didn't have much confidence in himself when it came to anything else, but when it came to racing he knew he had both.

His daddy had told him and Merle all about the late 60s and early 70s; about how a load of biased fuckers had banned him from racing – and for _what_? Racing hard, so what. Motorcycles were for pushing to the limit, and if some fuckers were too damn scared to deal with that, well then wasn't their hard luck?

 _Our old man's trying to live through us_ , Merle had told him once, when he was too young to understand.

Merle loved the attention when he was on a bike. Loved the noise, the thrill of twisting the throttle. Loved, most of all, the girls who would flock at the mere sight of a motorbike. He liked to win, sure. But Merle liked the hangers-on that came with winning more.

Daryl just wanted to be on a bike. Inside his helmet, he was alone. The noise of an engine drowned out the noise of his daddy bawling him out, or of Merle chastising him. Sometimes he felt guilty, because his mom had hated bikes, but she'd died in the old house that time there'd been a fire, and he figured that she was a mom, and moms just wanted their kids to be happy, right?

He was still wide awake, lying on his bed listening to the radio play shit he hated, like Whitney Houston and Tiffany, when his daddy came in, throwing a wad of $100 dollar bills at him.

"That's your race fees for the rest of the season. Tomorrow, you're getting your ass out of bed for once in your goddamn life and getting that bike back on track. There's four races left this season. You're going to win them all or I'm telling you boy, you ain't going to be under my roof or eating my food for free much longer."

*

Rick was in the yard with his father, helping him wash their pick-up truck, which was part of his weekly chores. Rick didn't mind, he enjoyed doing anything with cars and bikes, even if it was something as boring as walking back and forth with buckets of soapy water. He knew that later he'd be allowed to take his motocross bike out for a few hours, as reward. Rick loved riding out to the local dirt track, where he knew he was a world away from the other boys in terms of talent. He heard the snark from the more jealous members of the usual crowd, the ones who would complain that Rick had been brought up in a racing environment; that he was the son of Richard Grimes Snr, so yeah, of course him and his mouth full of silver spoons would be better than everyone else.

Rick resented that accusation. Yeah, racing was all he had ever known, but he worked hard too. He practiced and practiced. He paid his dues cleaning and polishing his dad's old trophies that were lined up in a special cabinet in the garage, gleaming silver and telling tales of glories past. One of Rick's favourite things to do was to walk around the garage, staring up at the framed black and white photographs of his dad's glory days. His face was black with dirt and dust in most of them, but always with the unmistakeable blue Grimes eyes peering out from inside a helmet. Rick couldn't wait until his dad deemed him worthy enough to use the same bottle-green helmet design he had always raced with.

"You looking at those damn pictures again, Rick? Haven't you seen them enough times?" his dad's voice was full of mirth as he walked into the garage, chamois in hand. He handed it to Rick. Guess his chores weren't done with yet.

"I just love looking at them, dad. You think I'll win as much as you?"

Richard cocked his head to the side.

"Guess you might, if you worked hard."

Rick beamed inside. Coming from someone as strict as his father, that was tantamount to extremely high praise.

His dad threw a sponge at him.

"You'll not win anything by standing there daydreaming. Back to work."

*

"What it is," Richard began thoughtfully as he and Rick were both down on their knees cleaning hubcaps, "Is that you can be as fast as you want – but you've got to have _brains_."

Rick had heard this before. He had read the old newspaper reports about his dad's racing days. His mom had kept everything, when she was alive, but these days they sat in a box in the garage, becoming yellow with age. The reports had always said how great Richard Grimes was – tactical, clean... _boring_.

He didn't answer his dad.

"Know what you're thinking, Rick. Everyone said I was boring to watch. Too clinical. Let me tell you something. Boring? Boring _wins_."

Rick didn't want to be boring. He wanted to be the most exciting racer to watch _ever_. He wanted people to gasp at the miracles he performed on track. He wanted the crowds to scream with joy and disbelief as he crossed the line to win. He wanted... he wanted to be like Merle Dixon.

*

"Dad said it's better to be boring and sensible on track," Rick mentioned to Shane. "You reckon that's right?"

Shane got off his motocross bike, covered head to toe in the thick red dust of the dirt track they met at every evening.

"Your dad won everything. Of course he's right!"

Shane looked at Rick as if he was mad for even daring to suggest that the great Richard Grimes Snr might be wrong about something. Shane had known Rick's dad all his life, and still idolised him. He and Shane had been friends pretty much since they had both left the womb; they'd both gotten their first bikes at two years of age. Shane had taken the stabilisers off his four days before Rick had, and man, did he make sure that he never let Rick forget that fact.

Shane didn't come from a racing family like Rick did. But his dad was a police colonel with plenty of money to fund his son's racing career. Shane had spent more time growing up in Rick's home that he had his own. He was cocky, loud-mouthed, and already gorgeous to look at. If they hadn't been best friends, Rick probably would have hated him.

"Meant to be pretty damn hot this weekend," Shane commented. "Gonna be hot inside our leathers at the track, man. A whole race sweating our balls off, gonna be sweat rolling off our foreheads and into our eyes underneath our helmets, fuck I hate when it stings. Then your dad will have us cleaning the bikes and the whole fucking garage afterwards. Like, even when one of us wins – and that'll be me – he'll still make us do it. Can't ever give us a break, I mean you don't see most of the other guys putting in the grunt work like we do and..."

Rick drifted off, as he frequently did when Shane was talking. And God, Shane talked. He never shut his mouth. Rick loved him for it – he himself wasn't much of a talker, so he was more than happy for Shane to fill the silences, but as they got older, he found that sometimes he listened less and less.

*

Rick and Shane were still both in the lowest racing category. Rick loved racing for his dad's junior team, but he craved something bigger, faster, _more_. They weren't poor by any stretch of the imagination, but his dad just didn't have the budget for a Supersport or Superbike team. All night, every night, all he and Shane talked about was getting into a Supersport team for the following year. Rick had no guilt about that – plenty of youngsters were clamouring to join Grimes Racing, so he had no shame about wanting to leave for bigger and better things.

Their junior championship took them all around the state, but Rick knew that the more senior championships would see him travel the country, going to places he'd never been to – California, Vegas, New York... The thought both terrified and exhilerated him. He imagined long plane journeys, private cars, media interviews, magazine photoshoots. All things his dad had lived through. He wanted it.

Rick listened to more than the vast majority of what his dad told him, but the lecture he'd gotten a year ago about staying away from the Dixons had fallen on deaf ears. Daryl Dixon had appeared halfway through the season again, along with his own dad, Will, a man who Rick was immediately terrified of, with his large fists and aggressive manner. Rick's dad had made a sardonic comment about new meth labs paying for better bikes, but then his mouth had gone into a thin line, and he'd said no more.

Daryl, when he was away from his hulking rage-ball of a father, was actually good to talk to, Rick had found. He always said hello, he always said congratulations if Rick had done well, and he always apologised on Merle's behalf, if Merle had acted like a dick towards Rick's dad.

Merle was an almost constant presence in the paddock now, mostly as an erstwhile advisor to Daryl. In private, Daryl explained to Rick that Merle wasn't in racing for the long haul. He didn't care about points or bigger teams, he just raced when he wanted to, if that was the high he was after that particular week. Some weeks it was speed, some weeks it was girls, some weeks it was drink and drugs. Daryl had looked around nervously when he'd confessed that to Rick, as if Merle or his dad was listening. Rick felt honoured that Daryl would tell him such things; he certainly didn't seem to speak to anyone else. Rick figured that the simple gesture of lending Daryl his gloves had given the other boy some sort of twisted sense of loyalty, like he was so un-used to kind gestures that he'd cling to anyone who'd actually treated him decently.

It was the weekend of the penultimate race of the season, and Merle was holding court outside the garage as usual, talking shit to anyone who would so much as half-listen. In all honestly, Rick was getting kind of tired of it. Speaking to Daryl had taken the shine off Merle's bluster somewhat, although he couldn't quite place why. Merle was all front, but that was it. Daryl's front, Rick had found, could be broken down with kind words and shared worries about the races ahead. You know what? Daryl was okay.

"Grimes!" Merle shouted over. "Heard you've struck up a friendship with my cocksucking little brother."

Merle grinned, showing a mouth with several missing teeth. Had he lost them in crashes or fights, Rick wondered. Undoubtedly both. His face was heavily tanned, sunburnt across the bridge of his nose, and his lips were chapped. He had narrow eyes that gave him the look of someone who might be bad, or worse, violent.

He held up a white helmet that had nasty black scrapes on the back, and a crudely painted hissing black cat on the side.

"Like the design?"

Rick swallowed and nodded silently. As if he would ever tell Merle Dixon that he didn't like something of his.

"A black cat?" he dared to say. He was embarrassed by how his voice cracked with nervousness. "Isn't that meant to be bad luck?"

Merle made a _pffft_ noise.

"Ain't nothing I can't beat on the track, kid. I'm faster than everything, you think bad luck can catch up with Merle Dixon?"

Rick didn't realise that he was meant to answer until Merle started at him icily.

"Well? Do ya?"

"No," Rick stammered, feeling extreme relief as Merle's face immediately broke into a smile again.

"Good, 'cause if ya dared to say that anyone's faster than me, I'd have to kick yer ass faster than I kick my baby brother's when he pisses me off."

Rick tried to ignore that comment, feeling a pang of sympathy for Daryl, if what Merle said was true. He thought of the black cat on Merle's helmet, feeling a slight chill about racing with something so steeped in folklore. He knew his dad would tell him it was nonsense, but in contrast, the Dixons were seemingly a superstitious bunch, full of talk of curses and chupacabras. Rick enjoyed listening to them talk, mostly, if he was honest, because he knew it was forbidden – Daryl's older brother in particular wasn't someone that his dad wanted his son associating with.

Shane agreed, shaking his head in an amused fashion in their motorhome one morning, as he pulled on his boots.

"I don't know what you see in those hicks, man," he laughed, licking a thumb and rubbing off some invisible scuff on the toe of his right boot. "I guess Merle's funny – and man he can race – but Daryl? Daryl's just _weird_. I mean, the guy doesn't speak."

 _He speaks to me_ , Rick wanted to retort, but for some reason the thought of saying that to Shane of all people made him feel slightly odd.

"Aw, he's okay," Rick settled for saying. He threw a glove at Shane's head. "Anyway you talk enough for everyone here. C'mon, once you've finished, we've got a race to do."

*

Everyone arrived at the track on Wednesday mornings, to get maximum preparation time for the race weekend ahead. Normally, it was a somewhat sleepy atmosphere; everyone clutching cups of coffee and chatting amiably outside garages, laughing at in-jokes or gossiping about who would be riding where the following season. Being the last race weekend of the season, everything was heightened.

Rick and his father usually unpacked Rick's leathers, had some breakfast together (Rick craved sugary cereal, but his dad forbade it) and chatted about their race strategy before going on a track walk. Lots of other riders and their crew would do the same, but today there was a strange vibe in the Paddock. Not quite sad, but not as jovial and laid-back as normal. There was the usual buzz of some sort of gossip travelling from person to person, but Rick could instinctively feel that whatever was being talked about wasn't the normal chatter about rider contracts or inter-team arguments.

Rick's dad drained the last of his coffee, looked out of the motorhome window and shook his head.

"Something's going on."

"I thought so too, dad. What do you think it is?"

"I don't feel like it's anything good. Maybe I'll go have a look-see."

"Can I come?"

"Sure, but track walk straight after, okay?"

"Okay dad."

Rick followed his dad down the steps and into the Paddock, where each rider's motorhome was lined up side by side. So many contract negotiations and gossip took place in the shadows between each huge vehicle; riders speaking to rival teams, or, Rick had heard Merle say, where some took their girlfriends (or someone else's girlfriend) to have sex. Rick had blushed when he'd heard that, and Merle had laughed and laughed at his shyness about such matters.

The good thing about having a famous father was that Rick was sometimes privy to information before anyone else was. As soon as one of the other team bosses saw them, he approached with a shocked look on his face.

"What's going on?" Richard asked.

"It's Merle Dixon..."

"Oh I might have know it'd be something to do with those Dixons..." Rick's dad began, but the other man cut him short.

"He died last night. Road bike accident."

Rick's first thought was of Daryl.

*

Daryl had raced anyway. He didn't have any problems inside a helmet, and if it had been the other way around, Merle would have done the same. His daddy was with him, ignoring the people who approached him to give their condolences.

"Don't need the sympathy of people who usually look at us like we're the shit on their shoe," he spat. "Grimes can kiss my ass, always was a do-gooder."

Daryl zoned out, unable to cope with his daddy's angry tirades any longer. He was exhausted from crying and from wanting to be furious at Merle for being so fucking stupid. Merle was always going to come to a sticky end somehow, so Daryl's grief was tempered by an almost total lack of shock.

The race was on a tight, twisty track; the kind Daryl loved because it slowed the bikes down, meaning that his heap of junk didn't have as much of a disadvantage as at some races. He was still dead last, but the bike actually felt pretty good for once. For the first time, Daryl had ignored his daddy's advice on how to set the bike up, and he'd adjusted the suspension. He could smell rain in the air, and he'd been right.

Daryl watched as some riders went down like pins. His bike stayed stuck to the road, grippy and reliable. Water ran down the back of his too-large leathers and he felt it seeping through a hole in his left boot. He didn't care. He passed another rider that had gone down, and recognised it as that arrogant prick Shane Walsh. The rain was really hammering down now, but Daryl had ridden through the muddy woods around his house since he was a toddler, and this was nothing compared to that. Everyone else seemed to be sliding about, while Daryl started lapping faster and faster.

He came home fourth. On a cheap ass bike, it felt like a win.

"You fucked up your start," was the only comment his daddy made. "Get started packin' up and let's get out of here."

Daryl did what he was told while his daddy sat in their van with a bottle of whiskey, drinking himself into his usual evening stupor. Daryl hoped that he'd drink enough to pass out until morning, so that he'd leave Daryl well alone. It didn't always work out that way, though.

"Great race today," a voice said, as Daryl was pushing his bike up onto the trailer. He turned around to find Rick.

"Was nothing. Rain makes everyone more equal," he shrugged. "Better race for you, first win?"

"First win," Rick nodded. He looked at Daryl with pity. "Daryl..."

"Don't. Know what you're gonna say. It's okay. He always said he was here for a good time and not a long time."

"I know, but losing your brother on a bike... I'm sorry."

Daryl gave a derisive grunt.

"Didn't lose him on a bike."

"What?"

Daryl finished securing the bike onto the trailer and hopped back over the side and onto the ground to face Rick. He could hear his daddy snoring already, so he was free to speak.

"Said, didn't lose him on a bike. He sold some stuff to the wrong kind of guys. They beat him to death outside a bar last night."

The horrified look on Rick's face almost gave Daryl a twist of satisfaction in his gut. He figured there'd not been a lot of ugliness in Rick's life up until now, and Daryl was just going to let some of _his_ seep inside Grimes' world.

"Oh my God, Daryl."

Daryl shrugged.

"Come on, you knew what business the Dixons are in. You know how my daddy funded me and Merle's racing. Everyone in this entire stinkin' sport does."

"That doesn't change how sorry I am."

Daryl could see that Rick's words were genuine. He didn't want to be a total asshole towards the other boy, 'specially when Rick had always been pretty nice to him, not like the others, who either ignored him or called him trash behind his back when they knew he was listening. He bit his thumbnail and gave a curt nod of thanks.

"Suppose you have some party or somethin' to be going to. Celebrate your first win an' all."

"Nope," Rick rocked back on his heels. He normally came across as a pretty confident guy, but in that moment he looked nervous. "Kind of have a meeting with Hershel Greene in an hour."

"Shit, man!" Daryl couldn't contain his surprise.

Hershel Greene was the team boss that everyone wanted to race for. He had the best bikes, the best sponsors, and what's more, he treated his riders fairly. He was known for being strict, but it was all part of his winning philosophy. He owned a Supersport team and a Superbike team, and you knew that if you did good in the Supersport team, then there was a damn good chance you'd move up to the main category, where you could challenge for race wins and championships. Winning was expected at Team Greene. So was good behaviour and discipline. Daryl daydreamed about racing for them, but as much as he knew he could do the former, the latter two had never been his strong points.

Rick's cheeks blushed.

"It's pretty scary."

"What does your dad think? He pissed you might be leaving his team?"

Rick shook his head.

"Naw, he's happy for me. I can't stay in the junior championship forever. Want to build my career, you know?"

Daryl made a _Mmm_ noise as if in agreement. He didn't really know. He was lucky to make it to any race at all, let alone consider racing as an actual proper career. Rick obviously picked up on it.

"Might not end up happening though, Daryl. Could still be racing against you next year if the deal doesn't come off."

"It'll come off. Might not have the money to race next season anyway, so..." He bit his lip. "Merle was the best one for bringing in money. With him gone I dunno if I'll be around."

He smiled weakly. Rick seemed sad at that, but Daryl was probably imagining things. No-one had ever missed him before, or wanted him around. Someone rich and so darn nice wouldn't care if he was there or not next year.

"I'll miss racing against you," Rick said.

"Aw c'mon, you were too far ahead of me to race against me."

"Still," Rick smiled. "It's good to share a track with someone so talented. I hope you'll be back next season, because there's something I want you to have..."

Daryl watched as Rick unzipped his rucksack and pulled out a pair of gloves. The ones he had borrowed the first day they'd met. Rick held them out, and Daryl didn't know which of them felt the most embarrassment.

"They're yours, if you want them."

Daryl reached out and took them. They were probably worth more money than his entire bike.

"Thanks."

For the first time in months, Daryl properly smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having SO much fun writing this one. If you'd like, please do leave a comment and tell me what you think.
> 
> This fic is going to span a few decades, so if it's not clear whereabouts in time we are or what age the boys are as we go, let me know. I do plan to throw in various music/popular culture references along the way just so there's a sense of what year it is.
> 
> Also if the bike and racing stuff is baffling, again let me know and I can make it clearer.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _...I know Will Dixon. He beat every wife and girlfriend he ever brought to a racetrack and I bet he's the same with his kids. Tell you something else, the younger son sure isn't Merle._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/

Rick wondered if Shane was ever going to speak to him again. He knew that his oldest friend, his brother, was seething with jealousy, that he thought Rick only got the ride with Team Greene because of who his dad was, and that _he_ had deserved to ride the famous black and neon green bike.

Rick loved how he looked in the matching leathers. He wasn't one to care about his appearance, but he couldn't help looking at himself every time he walked past anything that would show his reflection. The black was menacing and cool, and Rick could almost believe that they helped him shave a few tenths off each lap. He was so happy at his new team. Hershel was an outwardly stern man, but behind the scenes, Rick had found him almost fatherly. Racing in a bigger category was hard, and he'd wiped out in the first race, but in the second and third races, he'd gotten a fifth place and then a third. Everything was coming together in his life. His dad was super-proud, and had found a young Korean rider called Glenn to take Rick's place in the Grimes Racing team.

Shane was the only thorn in Rick's side. He was still racing for Rick's dad, but Rick wasn't sure how much longer his dad would tolerate Shane's attitude. He was becoming reckless on track, desperately trying to impress other teams so he could move up too. He'd bawl out his mechanics and accuse them of not setting up his bike properly. Rick had tried to speak to him, but Shane had responded with snark. _Haven't you got some big team meeting with Hershel to be going to?_

"He'll come around," his dad had reassured him, but Rick didn't think so. He'd known Shane all his life, and he knew that he would never back down from an argument. He was great on a bike, but he was even better at holding grudges. When it came to competition, Rick wasn't sure that he and Shane's friendship could survive.

And Rick missed him. That sense of brotherhood. The way that Shane swore and spoke about girls as if he was so much older. His bedroom seemed empty without Shane holding court in it. One of his empty coke cans was still sitting on Rick's nightstand, and his Madonna album was still on the record player. Rick lay in bed looking at his motorbike posters and the one of the scantily clad model, that girl from the Whitesnake video, that Shane had given him for his 16th birthday, and missed his best friend desperately.

He'd let Rick into secrets about... stuff, too. Stuff that people didn't talk about in public but that boys their age did. _Just do whatever feels good, man. Whatever feels good_ , Shane had said. Rick would do it right now, but he didn't feel much like it, even though Shane said he did it all the time, that some days he was surprised it didn't fall off he did it so much.

Rick stared at the girl on the poster, her black bra and her pale skin. He closed his eyes and turned over. He wondered how Daryl Dixon was.

*

Daryl didn't have posters on his bedroom walls. He didn't have much of anything at all, aside from a mattress on the floor and an old patchwork blanket his mom had made when he was still a baby. The paint was peeling, the windowpane was broken, and the few clothes he owned were in a heap on an old rocking chair in the corner. He'd snuck Merle's stolen stereo into his room, but he didn't have any tapes to play on it. From his window he could see the rusting bits of machinery and old bikes in the yard, and their blue pitbull, Jack, who spent his day outside chained up. Or at least he did on the nights that Daryl wasn't able to sneak him into his room. It gave him comfort to have the dog pressed against him as he slept, some affection that normally wasn't forthcoming.

He'd read in one of his daddy's motorcycle magazines that Rick Grimes was racing for Team Greene. Good for him, Daryl had thought, but not said out loud. He'd expected Grimes to be a snob, to look down on some redneck like Daryl as if he was better than him, what with living in a big ranch house with a famous dad, but instead Grimes had treated him as an equal. He still had the gloves, hidden under his mattress so his dad couldn't ask him where they were from, or try to sell them.

Daryl lay down, pressing his hands against his ears as he heard his daddy return from the bar. There was a clattering noise as he knocked over a chair in the kitchen, followed by loud swearing and then a high-pitched giggle from whatever woman he had brought home this time. Daryl hated listening to the noises coming from the other room when there was a girl there, but at least it meant he wouldn't the target for his daddy's drunken rage tonight. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd been pulled out of bed by the hair and ordered to clean up whatever imaginary mess he had created.

Tonight, he really needed sleep. They were going racing tomorrow. Daryl didn't want to know how they'd gotten the money to enter this time, something about some guy owing his daddy a favour. Daryl was just happy that for now, he hadn't gotten dragged into the family 'business' the way Merle had. To this day he still hadn't told anyone but Rick about how Merle had really died. His daddy had made damn sure that Daryl wouldn't open his mouth about it. He'd pressed him up against the wall, hand wrapped around Daryl's mouth, and hissed _Keep it zipped. Far as anyone knows, Merle ended up road pizza, you hear me?_

Daryl tried not to think about his brother lying injured and dying behind some dive bar after a meth deal gone wrong. No doubt his mouth had gotten him into trouble with the wrong people. Rival dealers, maybe, or gang members. What did it matter? His face kept flashing into Daryl's mind, maybe covered in blood, eyes gouged out, teeth broken. Who knew.

He could hear the woman moaning now, and he squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he owned a pillow that he could put his head under. Merle had been the same, _pussy-hound and proud_ , he used to laugh. Daryl didn't much see the appeal. Not in the real life women nor the ones in the magazines Merle tried to give him. _Have a look, some of these will get you hard for the first time in your life, little bro._

They hadn't.

*

Shane had showed up late to the track. Rick's father paced around the motorhome, swearing angrily about disrespect and shoddy timekeeping. It wasn't often that Rick had heard him curse, but Shane's attitude lately had put his temper almost at boiling point. Like Rick, his father was slow to anger, but once he was, it was frightening.

"He's got one more chance," Richard said, holding a finger up. "One. Plenty of kids would kill to race for my team, I've had enough of that spoilt brat's bitching and moaning."

"I'd talk to him, if I could," Rick replied sadly. "But you know he won't speak to me."

"I know, son."

Rick took a swig of his water and sighed. "I know racing is life, but maybe I was naive to think our friendship would be more important to him."

Richard sat down, looking at his son with softer eyes.

"You're going to find out that friendships can end in this sport, kiddo. Money and rivalry will always get in the way. People who you thought you could trust will stab you in the back if they think it will help them win."

"That will never be me," Rick stated, banging a fist down onto the table. "I want to win fair and square, I'd never screw someone over."

Richard Grimes shook his head.

"With all due respect, son, you don't know that."

Rick didn't want to think about it. He'd gotten this far by being honest and fair on the track. And look where it had gotten him – he was in Team Greene, with a boss he liked, a bike he was really getting comfortable with, and the potential to win today. The only blot on his life right now was Shane. He was someone who had always had people around him. He needed a friend.

He finished his water, and gave his father a hug.

"I have to go. See you after qualifying?"

His dad nodded, and patted him on the arm lightly.

"Stay calm, Rick."

Rick walked towards the Team Greene garage, where his bike was waiting for him. He noticed a battered-looking motorhome pull up, it's bodywork rusting and its tyres deflating. The exhaust belched blue smoke, and all of the windows were either scratched or broken. Who in the hell would bring something like that to the racetrack...

A load of curse words polluted the air, and Will Dixon appeared from the driver's seat. In the six months since Merle had died, he'd gained even more of a beer belly, and his face was wrinkled and leathery with sun damage.

"Get into your leathers, boy. We're late."

Rick heard the passenger door creak open, and then out hopped Daryl Dixon.

"Daryl!" Rick couldn't help exclaiming.

Daryl looked up at him through long fair hair that was covering his eyes. It had grown a lot since Rick had last seen him. Daryl had gotten taller too, his shoulders widening and jaw becoming stronger. His face was thin, but it suited him.

"Hey," was the only response he got.

"You racing this weekend?" Rick asked, and Daryl nodded, his eyes fixated firmly on the ground.

"Yup."

Rick watched Will Dixon approach, and noticed the way Daryl instinctively flinched when his dad placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Want somethin'?" Will Dixon drawled.

"Just saying hi," Rick stammered.

"Piss off," came the angry reply.

As Rick walked away, he saw Will Dixon push Daryl towards their motorhome, and hollering at him to hurry up and get the bike ready.

He was so ruffled by what had just happened that he didn't notice Shane arriving, two hours late.

*

Daryl hoped Rick hadn't noticed the black eye his daddy had given him that morning. It was already starting to swell and turn purple. Daryl was dreading putting a helmet on, he knew the pressure of the plastic pressing against his tender flesh would be agony. Luckily his hair had grown long enough for it to hang over his face and disguise most of the injury.

Black eyes were fine. A few days and it would be nothing more than a yellowing memory. The belt was worse.

He wheeled his bike along the pitlane, looking into the Team Greene garage as he did so. Rick was there, laughing with some mechanics as he zipped up his leathers. He looked different from the last time Daryl had seen him. The lightest touch of stubble on his chin and slightly shorter hair. His new black and green leathers made him seem taller and more muscular. Maybe it wasn't just the leathers doing that, Daryl found himself thinking. He felt guilty for not speaking to Rick, but he couldn't face the questions or pitying looks about his eye that he knew he'd get.

He tried to put his daddy and Rick Grimes out of his mind. The most important thing would be to qualify well so that he was high up on the grid for the race the next day. Outside the Grimes Racing motorhome, he saw Shane Walsh arguing with Rick's father. Daryl didn't want to stick his nose in where it didn't belong, but he couldn't help hearing the words _disrespect_ and _no more chances_. He wondered how Shane was enjoying still being in the junior category when Rick was already on a bigger bike. Extremely badly, probably. Daryl didn't like him, the way he swaggered around the paddock like he was the greatest thing to ever sit on a bike. He was quick, Daryl conceded, but he acted like he didn't have a brain sometimes. Daryl knew that he let his Dixon temper get the better of him too sometimes, but he was observant on track, he knew that much. Something that Shane wasn't.

He didn't realise he'd been staring until Shane caught his eye.

"Yo, Dixon, want to take a picture?" he snarled.

Daryl shook his head and made to continue his way down the pitlane.

"Kid," he heard an older voice say. It was Richard Grimes. He'd never spoken to Rick's dad before. He didn't feel worthy enough, if he was being honest. And what would someone like Richard Grimes ever want with him anyway.

"Yes sir?"

Richard's eyes widened at that, as if he was staggered by Daryl's politeness. He was used to calling older men 'Sir'. If he didn't call his daddy that, he'd pay the price. And anyway, his mom had taught him to respect his elders. Daryl couldn't quite say he always did, Merle's influence had been pretty damn strong too, but at times like this, he knew he had to have manners.

Rick's dad looked a lot like him. His hair was cropped close and flecked with grey, but you could tell he had the same curls as his son. His beard was white and neatly trimmed, and while he was a little fatter around the face and stomach than he had been in his racing days, he still looked like he kept himself in decent enough shape. He didn't have a cigarette and whiskey-ravaged face like his own daddy had, that was for sure. And his blue eyes, well, they were exactly like Rick's.

"You're Will Dixon's youngest?"

"Yes sir."

"You look like him."

Daryl wrinkled his nose. He'd heard that dozens of times over the years. Merle had looked more like him, but Daryl had the same narrow grey-blue eyes, and a thin mouth that had a tendency to look cruel. _Only thing your useless momma gave you was your cheekbones_ , his daddy had said once. _Makes you look like a fuckin' girl. Like a fuckin' queer._

"But not too much," Richard quickly said, sensing Daryl's displeasure.He sucked on his teeth and pointed at Daryl's face. "How'd you get the black eye, kid?"

"On the bike," Daryl replied automatically.

"This bike?" Richard pointed to the piece of shit Daryl was racing with this weekend.

"No sir. Motocross bike."

"Uh-huh? At the dirt track?"

"Yes. Yes sir."

That was a lie. Daryl wouldn't dare go to the dirt track where Rick and Shane and all their friends hung out.

"My boy, Rick, goes there. You ever seen him there?"

"Yes sir."

"Funny," Richard pondered. "He's never mentioned seeing you there."

"Guess he don't see me, sir."

"Guess he doesn't."

Daryl felt the weight of Richard's gaze on him, and he could sense that his cheeks were going red. He hated people staring at his weird face. He hated to think that they were judging him for being a Dixon; for being no-good hillbilly crap. He could see Shane from the corner of his eye, staring over resentfully.

"I'll let you get on with it, then," Richard said. "What's your name?"

"Daryl."

"Good luck, Daryl."

*

Rick didn't quite know what to think when his dad told him that he'd fired Shane. He'd just gotten back from the podium after coming second, exhilerated and covered in the champagne that he was still too young to drink, when he saw his dad's expression and knew something had happened.

Rick had watched the junior race with interest. Shane had crashed at the first corner and pushed a marshal over in anger when they tried to retrieve his bike from the gravel. But that hadn't even been the most exciting part of the race – that had been Daryl. He'd qualified dead last, as he usually did, but he'd fought his way up to eighth, beating more experienced riders on better bikes. His overtakes had taken Rick's breath away. Daryl was brave – his dad might say he was a little crazy – but he obviously had guts, and what's more, he knew when to pick his moments, hunting down the guys ahead and edging closer just enough to fuck with their heads, push them into making a mistake, before finally making his move. Rick knew that he himself was good, but he had to work hard at it; skill wasn't necessarily hereditary. But Daryl? Daryl had raw talent.

Shane had blamed everyone but himself for his crash. He'd told Rick's dad to fuck off and walked out of the garage.

"He's out," Richard had seethed. "I won't have someone like that in my team. Talent means nothing if you're going to ruin it all with a bad attitude. Even that Dixon kid was better-mannered when I spoke to him earlier, have to admit he rode a hell of a race too and..."

"You spoke to Daryl Dixon?" Rick asked with surprise.

"Momentarily, yes. Kid has a black eye. Tried to lie and tell me he did it on a motocross bike, but I know Will Dixon. He beat every wife and girlfriend he ever brought to a racetrack and I bet he's the same with his kids. Tell you something else, the younger son sure isn't Merle."

Rick was shattered by his dad's words. He felt sick to the stomach and stupid for not ever considering that Daryl might be suffering at the hands of his father. Rick remembered now the way Daryl had let his messy hair fall over his eyes, the way he had almost been scared to speak to him before the race.

There was a knock at the motorhome door. It was Rick's new boss, Hershel Greene. He and Rick's dad shook hands warmly. They'd known one another for years. Hershel had a slow, considerate manner, but he was razor-sharp and knew racing better than anyone else in the paddock. His long white hair was tied back into a small ponytail, and he had a large white beard and moustache.

"You heard what Will Dixon's done now?" he asked, exasperation in his normally quiet voice.

Rick's dad shook his head. Hershel leaned over to look out of the window.

"He just hit that boy, right in front of everyone."

"Daryl?" Rick asked, his heart thudding. He flashed a look at his dad, who looked irate.

"That his name? Rode a good race earlier," Hershel began. "Will Dixon obviously didn't think so. He's given him a black eye to match the one he already had."

*

Daryl held his arms up towards his head as he cowered on the kitchen floor. His head throbbed and both of his eyes were swollen up painfully. He wasn't sure what exactly he was meant to have done this time. All he knew that his daddy had blackened his other eye with the back of his hand, right in front of everyone. The only saving grace was that Rick Grimes hadn't been there to see it. Daryl wasn't sure why that fact was so important to him.

Outside, he could hear Jack growling at the noise coming from the kitchen. His daddy was swigging from a bottle of whiskey, draining it completely before throwing the bottle at the wall. It didn't smash, but the noise as it hit the tiles was enough to make the pitbull bark incessantly.

"Useless fuckin' waste of space," Will growled, aiming a kick at Daryl's side. His cowboy boot connected with Daryl's ribs, and he clutched at his stomach desperately, trying to protect every single part of his body, fruitlessly.

He'd been like this with Merle when they were growing up. But then Merle had gotten stronger, and gotten out. That had left Daryl as the victim. After his mom had died, the odd slap or punch had turned into beatings. Fists, feet, belts. Anything in Will Dixon's hand could become a weapon to be used against his child. That's just how it was in their world.

*

Rick and his dad drove home from the track in stony silence. Eventually Rick piped up.

"Hey dad, who's going to replace Shane in the team?"

"I don't know, son. I'll have to think about that tomorrow."

His dad stared at the road in front of them. They were still an hour from home.

"You okay?"

"Just angry, Rick."

"About Shane?"

"About that bastard Will Dixon."

Rick had never heard his dad call anyone that before, not in front of him anyway. He squirmed in his seat at the thick tension in the air. His dad switched the radio off irritably.

"You got somewhere to be?" he asked.

"No sir."

"Going to take a detour."

Rick's dad turned north on the freeway instead of south towards their ranch on the outskirts of Atlanta. Main roads got smaller and less well kept as they headed into the foothills. Rick eventually plucked up enough courage to ask where they were going.

"I'm assuming Will Dixon lives where he always did, Rick. I don't like the Dixons, but I'll be damned if I see talent go to waste or a kid treated so badly."

*

Daryl was still lying on the floor in a foetal position when he heard the angry voices outside. It hurt to open his eyes, and his mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood. He felt like he wanted to vomit. The fingers of his right hand ached where his daddy had stamped on them, and there was broken glass everywhere. He wasn't sure what it was from.

The bottom of his already threadbare shirt was ripped after his daddy had tried to pull him up off the ground. His back felt like it was on fire from where the leather belt had cut into his flesh. This time had been the worst time, until the next time.

"You ain't got no business bein' here. What I do to my son ain't your concern," he heard his daddy slurring at whoever was outside.

There was some kind of commotion, the noise of shouting and the front door slamming. Jack barked and barked, and then a softer, younger voice was pleading _Dad, please stop_ , and suddenly there were eager footsteps coming towards him; a man's voice saying _For the love of God Dixon, what have you done?_

Daryl felt breath against his face. He managed to open his eyes.

"Rick?" he croaked.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, as always.
> 
> Thoughts on the boys and what's going to happen, or what you THINK will happen, are always welcome.
> 
> I'm writing Chapter 6 at the moment and it's kicking my ass, so comments would be appreciated... they keep me motivated to write!


	4. 4.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The red mist had come down. And when it came down on Daryl, it hung all around him like an angry swarm of bees. He couldn't help it. All his life he'd gotten into trouble for fighting, for losing his head, and for acting before thinking. Usually when he was racing, that side of him didn't come out as much. But today? Today he'd been powerless to fight that rage that was always lying dormant inside him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/
> 
> There are chapters in this fic that I consider to be pivotal. This is one of them.
> 
> Just a warning - this contains homophobic language.
> 
> It also contains Rick and Daryl being very typical teenage boys...

Daryl's back was almost healed, and you could scarcely tell that he'd had a busted lip. He hadn't heard from his daddy. He didn't want to. But he missed Jack. There were a few dogs running around the Grimes ranch, but none he loved half as much as that pitbull.

_Here's the deal_ , Rick's father had told him, the morning after they'd taken him away. _You wash my cars, you clean my bikes, you mend fences, you mow the lawn. You do as I say and you work hard._

Daryl had just nodded, aware of Rick's presence behind him as he'd gotten this lecture. He wasn't scared of hard work. He was used to lugging scrap metal and tyres around his daddy's yard. Washing a few cars would be piss-easy. For the first time in his life, he had a bedroom that was warm and comfortable. It was only a small room above the garage, but it had everything he needed. A lamp instead of a candle, a soft chair to sit in, even a chest of drawers for his meagre possessions. He worked all day and went into the main house for meals. Rick and his dad shared the cooking, and Daryl tried all manner of foods he'd never had before – lean steak and sweet potatoes, spaghetti in tomatoey, garlicky sauce, ice cream sandwiches.

"Like to eat, huh?" Richard Grimes had laughed. Daryl had wiped sauce from his mouth with a sleeve and nodded. He daren't look at Rick, who he knew was trying not to snigger out loud.

"Yes sir."

Richard had put down his knife and fork and pointed to the napkin at the side of Daryl's plate.

"In this house, we have table manners. You'll learn them quickly, okay?"

"Yes sir."

"You ever say anything else but 'Yes sir'?"

Daryl wasn't sure what way to answer so he just shrugged, and started mopping up sauce with a piece of garlic bread. Afterwards, he began to fill the sink with water so he could do the dishes. If his daddy or Merle could see him now, they'd call him a queer and ask where his apron was.

"Let me dry those," Richard appeared, cloth in hand.

The silence between them as Daryl handed Richard each dish was awkward. Daryl couldn't think of anything to say to start a conversation, so he said nothing. Talking didn't come easy to him, it never had. Maybe with Rick, sometimes. He found the other boy easier to talk to more than most people he'd ever met.

"You like it here, Daryl?" Richard eventually said, stacking the plates neatly in a cupboard.

"Yes sir." Daryl was embarrassed at saying that again, so he thought he'd better keep talking. "Like the bikes, and the dogs. Nice room too. 'S different, you know?"

Richard opened the fridge door and handed him a candy bar.

"And racing, do you like it?"

"Love it, sir."

"You've worked hard here, Daryl. You know that I fired Shane Walsh, so I need someone else for my team."

Daryl stopped chewing the chocolate bar. He didn't dare hope. Good shit never happened to Dixons, and hope just meant setting yourself up for a fall. Richard slapped him on the shoulder, and Daryl's body tensed up, uncomfortable with bodily contact like that, because usually it meant pain. Richard realised what he'd done, and apologised.

"I'm sorry for that, Daryl. What I'm not sorry for is telling you that that will be your last candy bar for a while."

Richard smiled, and Daryl was struck by how much he looked like Rick in that moment.

"You're going to ride one of my bikes for the next race. If you do well, if you respect me and the work my team does, we'll see if we can't extend that to the rest of the season."

Daryl nodded, dumbstruck.

"Oh and one more thing," Richard said, pointing out of the window. "There's a big blue pit bull outside who's looking for you."

*

Rick took Daryl to the dirt track after dinner most evenings. Sometimes they didn't even ride their bikes much, they just sat in the grass banking surrounding the track, talking about racing, and life. Rick quickly realised that aside from racing, they hadn't really known much about each other at all. He hadn't known that Daryl liked chocolate and hated peanut butter, that he loved the heavy metal bands that Merle had introduced him to – or that his mom had been killed in a house fire years before.

"My mom's dead too," Rick had confessed one warm evening as they both lay on their backs in the long grass.

"Figured she was gone," Daryl had replied. "Thought she'd maybe run off or somethin', but I knew it was just you and your daddy." He'd paused to get up onto one shoulder. "So how'd it happen?"

Rick wasn't used to people being so forward with their questioning when it came to his mom, but he'd learned that Daryl didn't really conform to the same social norms as anyone else. He was severely shy, but direct and honest.

"She was sick, for a long, long time," Rick explained, trying to keep the quiver from his voice. "I was only 10. Dad met her at a track when he was still racing and they got married after only a few months. He's never been the same since she died. Threw himself into starting the race team, just to take his mind off things. If she was still here, I don't think the team would be anywhere near as successful." He looked at Daryl, who was listening intently. "You know, that's the most I've spoken about the whole thing. Probably ever."

"You never say all that to Shane?"

Rick laughed drily.

"Shane wouldn't have listened. I mean, you've met him, right?"

Daryl nodded.

"Yuh-huh. He's a fuckin' asshole. Don't know how you stayed friends with him so long."

"Known him all my life, Daryl. Maybe I was stupid thinking that people stayed friends forever. Yeah, he's an asshole though. The shit he talked about girls..."

"Oh yeah?" Daryl's eyebrows raised and he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jeans pocket.

"Merle had a stash," he explained as he lit up, seeing Rick's surprised expression. "He talked about girls? Like what?"

Rick's face went red.

"Just that like... he'd done it."

Daryl's face went even redder.

"He had? For real?"

"For real. Some family friend, or so he said."

Daryl blew out a plume of smoke.

"Have you ever...?"

"No," Rick said, averting his gaze away from Daryl.

"Me either," Daryl confessed. "What girl would look at this ugly face anyway?"

They had a curfew of 9pm during weekdays, and they just about made it back to the ranch, both covered in dirt from riding their bikes. Daryl paused outside the front door of the main house, biting his bottom lip.

"Everything okay?" Rick asked.

"'S just... I'm kinda sweaty and dirty."

"You want to come in for a shower?"

Daryl nodded gratefully and followed Rick inside and up to his bedroom.

"Why'd you have two beds?" he asked, pointing to the twin beds in Rick's room.

"Shane stayed over so much that dad figured he'd just put another bed in here." Rick pointed to a large pine chest of drawers. "There's fresh pyjamas in there, if you need them."

Daryl shook his head.

"Never worn 'em. Fine with just my boxers."

"Well – shower's just down the hall."

Rick changed quickly into pyjama bottoms and one of his dad's old team t-shirts that had seen better days, sitting down on the bed cross-legged as he waited for Daryl. When he heard the water stop running, he stood up quickly, watching as Daryl came back in, seeing how he took in every single aspect of the room, from the posters, to the expensive record player, and the thick, plush green carpet.

"Who's she?" Daryl asked, pointing to a poster.

"Some girl from a video," Rick replied.

"Huh. You like her?"

"She's okay, I guess."

Rick looked from the girl on the poster to Daryl. He had wrapped a blue and white striped towel around himself. His waist was thin – probably too thin – but his shoulders were wide and freckled. There were droplets of water dripping from Daryl's long hair onto his tanned skin, and Rick couldn't stop staring at them. Daryl had hardly any body hair, in contrast to Rick's body. He was becoming far too hairy for his liking, dark curls on his chest and legs that he didn't much care for. Daryl's skin looked a lot smoother than his did as a result.

"This room's ten times as big as my bedroom was back at my daddy's place," he commented. There was no envy in his voice, it was just matter-of-fact.

"You can hang out here, if you like," Rick ventured. "You want to listen to music?"

Daryl shrugged and sat down on the other bed.

"Sure. Got any Motorhead?"

Rick laughed.

"Do I seem like I'd have Motorhead?"

Rick put the radio on, and Daryl complained about every single song. Country music was his least favourite, he revealed. Dolly Parton and George Jones reminded him of his daddy coming home from the bar and playing their records too loudly and too long into the night.

He asked Daryl if he wanted to play Nintendo, but Daryl didn't know how. He'd never used a computer or games console before. He'd never even played Pac-Man. Rick had never felt like such a spoilt little rich boy before, even though he wasn't spoilt, and all the money went towards the team, not him.

"What did you do for fun?" Rick asked, and Daryl just laughed at him. It was a bitter laugh, one that made Rick feel uncomfortable.

"Went into the woods on my own to get away from everyone else mostly," he eventually replied, flopping back onto the bed and looking up at the ceiling. Lying down, his stomach looked concave, and his red boxer shorts were down low enough for Rick to see the tiniest trail of hair. "Sometimes me and Merle would shoot at tin cans in the yard, or try to jump our bikes over ramps. Anything that made noise pissed my daddy off though, so..."

Rick lay back on his own bed. It was dim in the room and he felt sleepy. He knew Daryl was sleepy too.

"You can stay in that bed, if you want," Rick suggested. "No point going back to the garage if you're already half asleep."

"Won't your dad mind?"

"Nope, why would he?"

"Okay sure," Daryl mumbled drowsily, and wriggled under the covers.

*

Daryl found it hard getting to sleep in such unfamiliar surroundings. He wasn't used to pillows, blankets that didn't have holes, or sheets that smelt of washing powder. From the bed across the room, he could hear what he thought was Rick snoring gently. But it wasn't the regular breathing pattern of snoring, it was more erratic; small gasps and long deep breaths. Daryl kept his body still as he recognised the soft slapping noise of flesh against slippery flesh. Rick emitted a small moan and the slick noises grew faster. The bedsheet was gently moving.

Daryl held his breath, trying not to listen but failing. He knew what Rick was doing. Daryl had done it himself, some days now it was all he did, even though he felt wrong at the things he thought about while he was doing it. He imagined Rick's hand moving up and down, his dick all wet and his pyjama bottoms pushed down to the tops of his thighs. He imagined a purple head sliding in and out of Rick's encircled hand, a thumb swiping beads of moisture around the taut skin. He imagined strong teeth biting down on a red, plump bottom lip. Daryl wondered what Rick would come into – his hand, a sock? Or would he just wipe himself down and go straight to sleep. Daryl thought about sticky come on Rick's stomach underneath damp material, and felt himself go hard.

He allowed himself to sneak a glance. He could see how Rick's eyes were shining, hear a groan and the creak of bedsprings. Daryl turned his head towards the pillow and bit down onto the material to stop himself from panting. His cock was making a tent in his boxer shorts and his hips jerked upwards of their own volition. He listened as Rick's breath caught in his throat and then there was the sound of the other boy turning over in bed. Daryl thought of all of the bad things that had happened in his life in an attempt to get his hard-on to subside. When he was sure Rick was snoring for real this time, he rolled over onto his stomach and went to sleep.

*

It didn't take Rick long to figure out that Daryl liked to be alone more often than not. When he wasn't out doing chores or practising at the dirt track, more often than not he'd be chasing the dogs around the fields surrounding the ranch, or holed up in his room with a novel. Rick's dad was thrilled that he'd finally found someone who appreciated his large book collection, grumbling that Rick had never been interested in reading. Daryl would read anything – fiction, motorbike manuals, the back of cereal packets...

"He's okay, isn't he?" Rick had asked one afternoon when Daryl was God-knows-where, and it was just he and his dad for lunch.

"Considering the family he's from, he's not the worst boy. Could probably do with some schooling, but at least he reads."

Rick laughed at the notion of Daryl joining him at school. He himself considered school a waste of time, fitting it around his racing career and not the other way around. Another couple of years and he'd be done with it anyway. He finished his turkey sandwich and cleared the plates away.

"Can I go to my room?"

"Okay, but no video games today, okay?"

"Okay, okay. Sheesh."

At the last minute, Rick changed his mind and decided to go to the garage to see if Daryl was in his room instead. Since Shane and he had fallen out, he hadn't shot many hoops, and he thought he might introduce Daryl to basketball. There was a net on the side wall of the house, and Rick figured that for once, he might actually be able to play against someone he could beat.

The stairs up to Daryl's room above the garage were carpeted, and Rick's sneakered feet made almost no sound as he made his way up. He could see the door was ajar, and was about to knock lightly, thinking that Daryl was maybe not there after all, when he heard it. Soft panting and the rustle of paper. Rick's chest began to rise and fall quickly as he stood frozen at the top of the stairs. The _Oh God_ he heard was unmistakeably Daryl's husky voice. Rick couldn't help himself from taking a step forward and peering through the gap in the door.

He saw Daryl lying on the bed, ripped blue jeans unzipped. He was shirtless and one hand was wrapped around his dick; the other thumbing through pages in a magazine. His hips bucked up to meet the movements of his hand as he masturbated furiously. Rick was aware of how his own breathing was becoming dangerously loud, but Daryl was grunting as he rubbed himself up and down furiously, so much so that Rick knew he'd never be able to hear him. He watched Daryl circle the head of his cock with his thumb, his mouth hanging open and closing his eyes every now and then. Rick was transfixed by the damp hair plastered against Daryl's forehead, the veins in his tanned forearms, and the thick pinkness of his large cock. Rick palmed at his own jeans, shocked by his own body's reaction to what he was witnessing. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't look away. Daryl's hand was moving so rapidly that Rick knew he was close. Daryl found a page in the magazine that he seemed to fixate on, and Rick could just about make out a glossy advert for racing boots; the shirtless male model's leathers unzipped and hanging around his waist. Daryl began to make _yeh aw yeh_ noises as he spurted come all over his hand and the tops of his jeans. Rick swallowed hard, turning to make his way downstairs with an aching erection of his own.

*

One thing the Dixons were good at was fucking up anything remotely good that came into their life. Daryl's first race for Grimes Racing had gone well. He'd gotten a third place and Richard Grimes had beamed with satisfaction, then told him to scrub the floor of the motorhome.

"He does that," Rick had reassured him. "My old man's head would explode if he ever showed he was proud of someone without giving you some crap to do at the same time."

Daryl had raised an eyebrow, as if he didn't believe Rick.

"Hey," Rick had said, dipping his head down so Daryl would meet his eyes. "He _is_ proud."

So of course didn't Daryl have to go and ruin everything.

It was his second race for the team. There were only four laps left, and some backmarker prick wouldn't get out of the way when Daryl was coming up to lap them. He'd been running in second place at that stage, practically smelling the win. And this useless fucking waste of space wove all over the track so Daryl couldn't get past. They'd collided, and Daryl had highsided off the bike and landed on his shoulder. Lucky he only escaped with a nasty case of road rash from skidding along the gravel and not a fucking broken collarbone which would have put him out of action for fucking _weeks_.

The red mist had come down. And when it came down on Daryl, it hung all around him like an angry swarm of bees. He couldn't help it. All his life he'd gotten into trouble for fighting, for losing his head, and for acting before thinking. Usually when he was racing, that side of him didn't come out as much. But today? Today he'd been powerless to fight that rage that was always lying dormant inside him.

He'd gripped the other rider under the arms on the pretence of helping him up out of the gravel, and then swung a punch at him. So what if they still had their helmets on? Daryl broke the rider's visor in two before pushing him into the tyre wall.

Five or six marshals ran over to restrain Daryl, and he wriggled and hissed like an feral cat being taken to the vets against its will. He was forced to see the stewards and banned for one race.

See? Dixons fucked _everything_ up.

Daryl sat in the motorhome waiting for Richard to arrive. When he did, he almost took the door off its hinges. His face was stony and his eyes were cold. Daryl was used to his daddy's violent, hot outbursts, but this was different. Cold and un-nerving.

"What the fuck did you think you were doing?"

"Sorry, sir."

"Don't 'Sorry, sir' me. I gave you a chance and this is what you do?"

Daryl put his head down, starting to quiver with the fear that he would be struck by something – the back of a hand, a plate... a belt. His hands were shaking, so he sat on them to stop them. Richard noticed, and stopped yelling.

"I'm not your father, Daryl. I'm angry, but I'm not your father. You ever hear the phrase, ' _I'm not angry, I'm just disappointed_?'"

"No, sir."

"Well," Richard opened the door of the motorhome and made to leave. "You're about to realise that it can feel so much worse than being shouted at."

Daryl went to Rick's room when he got home. Somehow being with Rick was tolerable in the same way that being alone was. Rick was like him – he wasn't a natural chatterbox, preferring to save his words for when he had to say things that actually mattered. He liked their comfortable silences when they were both in that room reading. They'd finish their respective magazines or comic books, then swap without so much as looking at one another or saying a word. Being with Rick was like being alone. That was about the highest compliment Daryl could pay the guy.

When he heard the door creak, he expected it to be Rick, back from watching the hour of television he was allowed every evening. It wasn't, it was Richard. Daryl put down his book and sat up immediately. Richard asked if he could sit down, and Daryl nodded.

"I expected better of you today. I've fired riders for less, Daryl. Much less. You saw what happened to Shane. I have no qualms in getting rid of you."

_So do it_ , the snarling, pessimistic Dixon inside Daryl wanted to retort. He thought of Rick, and kept his mouth shut.

"I took a chance on you, Daryl," Richard continued, his fingers knotted together as if in deep thought. "People in that paddock laughed at me, do you know that? Said I was crazy. I need you to prove them wrong and _me_ right. I need you to prove to me you're not a Dixon."

"I AM a Dixon," Daryl snapped back. Shit, there was only so long he could keep the anger deep down inside.

"Then change what 'being a Dixon' _means_ ," Richard's voice was stern, but then softened. He edged closer towards Daryl on the bed. Daryl wanted to inch away towards the headboard, but he told himself there was no threat here, not in this bedroom where he actually felt safe.

"Gonna try," Daryl murmured.

"Good." Richard sighed. "Look, you've proved you're a hard worker and I like that. And Rick... well, he might seem very fortunate to you, with this big bedroom and everything he could want for – materially, that is – but he's not had it so easy either. I dunno, maybe the two of you losing your moms so young is the reason why you seem to have bonded."

"Think he misses Shane, is all," Daryl made excuses. No-one had ever wanted to be that close to him before, let alone a guy like Rick Grimes.

"Maybe," Richard pondered, not looking convinced. "Difference is, with Shane... well, I never said so to Rick 'cause they grew up like brothers, but the kid is full of it. I knew this was a strange world we lived in, but I never thought I'd see the day when I approved of a Dixon spending time around my son more than I ever did a cop's kid."

They both stopped speaking as they heard Rick padding upstairs. Richard placed a hand on Daryl's shoulder as he stood up to leave.

"No more chances, Daryl. Do better next race. Much better."

He left the room, and then it was his son standing there, a bemused expression on his face. Daryl felt his nose wrinkle and a sour taste fill his mouth. _Don't cry you fucking pussy_ , he told himself, to no avail. He gave a large sniff, and rubbed at his eyes.

"You okay? Was dad a dick to you?"

Rick sat down on the bed. Daryl didn't back away this time, instead finding the warmth of Rick's thigh against his oddly comforting.

"Never been spoken to like that before."

Rick looked horrified. "I'm so sorry Daryl, he wouldn't say anything to hurt anyone on purpose, I can go downstairs and call him out on it if..."

Daryl shook his head.

"Naw, that's not what I mean. Never been spoken to like I was an _equal_. Like I wasn't something somebody found under a rock. I ain't used to that, Rick. I ain't used to that at _all_."

Daryl's face crumpled and he broke into a sob. Rick put an hand on his back, rubbing it gently as Daryl spilled his guts about growing up with a daddy who beat him and a brother who constantly called him worthless, a faggot, the worst of the Dixons and that was saying something.

"You're not any of those things," Rick soothed. "You're _not_."

Rick whispered into Daryl's ear, his lips grazing the skin. Daryl moved his head to the side gently, and Rick's lips moved across his cheek, so softly and briefly that Daryl might barely have noticed them if it didn't feel like he'd just been stunned with an electric current. He sat stock still. Rick's breath was against his cheek, then his mouth, then his lips... then Rick was kissing him, how was Rick kissing him? And Daryl was kissing him back, letting Rick rest a hand on his thigh as he leaned in closer, flicking his tongue against Daryl's. He didn't know if Rick had ever kissed anyone before. Didn't seem like it, all wet tongue and clashing teeth, but maybe this is what kissing was always like – Daryl had no frame of reference.

He allowed himself to put a hand on Rick's back, paranoid about his sweaty palms soaking the back of Rick's t-shirt. He had no idea what he was doing but Rick was breathing so hard, and that made Daryl feel kind of hot and itchy.

_A faggot, I knew it_ , Merle said, from somewhere.

Daryl jerked backwards, tearing his mouth away from Rick's and giving him a shove right in the middle of the chest.

"Just fuckin'... I can't, okay?"

Rick looked shattered.

Daryl wasn't afraid of nothin', he _wasn't_. But right now he was terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to all readers and commenters. I do appreciate it, loads. Would love to know what you think of this chapter.
> 
> As an aside, actual punch-ups in motorbike racing are rare, but they DO happen. Here's the one I sort of based Daryl's 'incident' on. 20 seconds in is absolute gold - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BUbWPooyQAc


	5. 5.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Life was good. It was Rick's 16th birthday, he was winning races for Team Greene, and he and Daryl were so close it felt like they were practically the same person sometimes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest - I haven't written much this week, since the news of Andy leaving TWD broke. As a shipper of both Rickyl and Leedus, I am completely devastated. But it's given me motivation to see this fic through to the very end, because the wonderful, complex, beautiful characters that are Rick Grimes and Dary Dixon deserve to be written about, even in a silly, shitty little fic about motorcycle racing.
> 
> I hope Rickyl shippers stay with me for the ride.
> 
> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/

"You gotta stop eatin' garlic," Daryl moaned.

"Well you've _got_ to stop smoking," Rick retorted indignantly.

In reality, Rick was used to the taste of tobacco now, but if Daryl was going to be a dick about it, then he could do the same.

"Oh what are you gonna do if I don't?" Daryl teased. "Quit kissin' me?"

Sometimes Rick felt like he could give up racing before he'd give up kissing Daryl Dixon. He enjoyed them equally, and thought he was pretty damn good at both, too.

Life was good. It was his 16th birthday, he was winning races for Team Greene, and he and Daryl were so close it felt like they were practically the same person sometimes. He put his hands behind his head and lay back in the grass, letting the late afternoon sun beat down onto his skin. The air was thick with the smell of wildflowers, and the only sound was the humming of bees as they went about their daily work.

There was the metallic click of Daryl's lighter, and then the smell of cigarette smoke. Rick was used to it now. In a way it was comforting, because it was Daryl. Rick had tried to tell the other boy that his dad had a nose like a bloodhound and would find out, but Daryl had just laughed, and taken another drag.

"Of all the things the likes of me could be doing, a smoke now and again ain't so bad."

Truth be told, Rick loved to watch him smoke. The ritual of it – Daryl's thick thumb swiping the flint, the slight hiss as the cigarette ignited, and then the delicious purse of Daryl's lips and sharp angle of his cheekbones as he took his first draw.

"Got you somethin'," Daryl grunted as he sat up, rifling in the pocket of his jeans.

Rick hadn't figured Daryl was the present-giving type, but Daryl shyly handed him a small bracelet. It was made from strings of black leather, and fastened together with a hex nut.

"Daryl, did you make this?"

"'S nothin'," Daryl shrugged, and Rick knew he hated the attention and praise, but Daryl had to know what an thoughtful gesture it was. "Nut is from one of your old bikes, hope you don't mind..."

Rick pressed Daryl down backwards into the grass. There was nobody around, so he grabbed Daryl's face in his hands and slid his tongue into his mouth.

"I don't mind," he breathed into Daryl's mouth, through kisses. "Daryl, that's... that's fucking amazing."

Rick felt Daryl's hands on the small of his back, and he hummed into Daryl's mouth gratefully. It had been a long, slow process getting this physically close to him. Rick knew that Daryl was uncomfortable with touch, from anyone at all, let alone another boy. If he was honest, Rick struggled with it too. He'd grown up assuming that men and women fell in love and got married. He'd liked plenty of girls in school, their long hair and fresh smell, but when he felt Daryl's hard body beneath him, and breathed in his scent of sweat and motorcyle oil, it was difficult to remember why they had held such appeal.

Rick remembered his dad bringing home a stray puppy once. Poor thing had been terrified at first, and had hidden underneath the kitchen table. Rick had lain on his stomach for at least an hour that first day, waiting for the little collie to pick up enough courage to sniff his hand, or accept a treat. It had taken weeks for him to even dare to approach Rick, even when Rick was just laying down a bowl of food for him – but he'd come around eventually.

When Rick was on top of Daryl like this, trying to be patient, it reminded him of the puppy. He didn't dare touch Daryl anywhere below the waist, or expose any of his skin. It had taken long enough for Daryl to accept Rick's tongue into his mouth, and even now, Rick could sense the fight-or-flight response always lay close to Daryl's surface. But kissing was good. He'd been kissing Daryl Dixon pretty damn regularly for close to a year now, and yeah okay, he maybe craved more, but the bottom line was – he wasn't quite sure what _more_ meant, and he was oh so very scared too.

He dared to edge the collar of Daryl's shirt down a little with his fingertip, running his lips down to the wide collarbones that lay underneath, but Daryl raised his knee in an attempt to get Rick to move.

"Get off me," he grumbled. Rick complied, knowing that that was enough for Daryl for today. The hard-on in Rick's jeans thought differently. Thank God he had his right hand, which he was frequently acquainted with these days.

They both sat up again, Rick red-faced and sweaty, and Daryl as silent as ever. He nudged Rick and pointed to the bracelet that lay in the grass. Rick picked it up, allowing Daryl to secure it around his left wrist.

"Like it, y'know," Daryl said quietly. "What we do. But I ain't..."

"I know," Rick nodded, poking at the bracelet. "I love this, Daryl. Looks cool."

Daryl gave a small, slightly proud smile.

"Yeah, well, was either that or a Michael Bolton tape."

"No, no!" Rick waved his hands about as if in surrender. "Anything but that!"

"Pfft," Daryl snorted. "As if that's any worse than that Bryan Adams song you listen to. Pile of crap."

"So you won't come with me to the cinema to see the movie it's from?"

"Hell, no. On your own, Grimes."

Daryl pulled a blade of grass from the ground and stuck the end in his mouth to chew it. There were beads of sweat on his top lip, and his forearms were becoming lithe and muscled thanks to hard work and heavy motorbikes.

"Quit starin' at me," Daryl snapped. Rick was used to his rudeness by now and just rolled his eyes.

"Well if I can't touch, looking's all I got..."

Daryl tutted, and leant over to push Rick flat onto his back. He placed a knee in the centre of Rick's chest, and Rick swallowed hard.

"One more kiss, Grimes, seein' as it's your birthday. But if I feel that dick of yours pokin' me, I'm goin' home."

*

At his daddy's house, Daryl used to jerk off to help him sleep. For a few minutes he could actually make himself feel good and take his mind away from all the shit in his life. His face still burned hot with shame every time he remembered the night that Merle had caught him, but then what did Merle expect, just bargin' into his teenage brother's bedroom? _Blondes or brunettes, little bro?_ he'd laughed. _Hey, next time you're rubbin' one out, let me know so I can bring a microscope._

Wasn't blondes or brunettes. Wasn't really anyone at all, not at first. Was just something that he started doing, like scratching an itch or sneezing. His body betrayed him by needing it to happen, even if he himself could think of a million things he'd rather be doing, like getting lost in the woods on purpose, or modifying Merle's old dirt bike with a turbo.

Until Rick Grimes, with his stupid curls and stupid strong jaw and stupid red lips. Lips like he'd only ever seen on girls. Lips that kept wanting to kiss him, and hadn't he been dumb enough to go ahead and let him. Lots of times. Dozens. Hell, probably hundreds. Nothing more than that, though. Daryl wasn't queer. He didn't think Rick was, either. He'd seen the posters in his room, and the way he'd casually mention some girls from his high school.

But for some reason, kissing Grimes came as naturally to Daryl as sitting on a motorcycle did.

And how racing came naturally to him. He was leading the junior championship for Rick's dad's team, and by a hell of a margin. Bikes were simpler than people. Most problems could be fixed with tools, they made their issues obvious and worked if you were good to them. Honest. No hidden motives. Not like most folk Daryl had ever known. Much like he'd lived through crap most people could never know, he could ride through problems that his bikes had and still win.

"You're a liability," Richard would joke.

"Why?"

"'Cause you can ride pretty much anything, so we never find out what the problems with the bikes are. Hell, I think I could give you a motorcycle with no engine and you'd still get it over the line somehow."

Daryl had won the last three races. He'd 'dialled down the crazy' according to the team, but shit, sometimes Daryl just wanted to let go – race as fast as he could as quickly as he could instead of thinking about saving his tyres and race tactics, like he was supposed to. Doing things by the book was Rick's style. Daryl just liked speed.

This weekend they were racing at the Woodbury Raceway. It was all double-chicanes and tight hairpins, and Daryl loved tracks like that. He'd studied videos of old races to learn the layout and drawn it over and over, so he'd be prepared the second he got onto his bike to practice. In the motorhome on race morning, Rick was stressed. He didn't like the track, and complained that he couldn't get turn 8 right. It was a left hander, followed by a downhill approach into two right hand corners. Daryl loved it. It made the blood pump through his veins like no other corner in the sport.

Rick sipped sparkling mineral water as he sat facing Daryl at the table, rubbing the stubble on his chin anxiously. Daryl was animated as he spoke, talking with his hands, eyes alight.

"Change from 3rd gear into 4th as you slide down the hill, then drop it down to 2nd for the tight part before you go back up the hill. Don't hit the kerb too hard on the right hand side or your teeth might rattle out of your head. Open the throttle nice and smooth – you should have no problem with that. You got this, Rick. You _got_ this."

Rick smiled, despite the tiredness on his face. It'd been a long season for him. The last few races hadn't gone his way, and he was worried that Hershel was getting pissed. It was coming up to the time of the season when contracts for the following year were signed, or broken. Daryl figured that a win for Rick today could seal his ride for Team Greene.

"Think that's the most you've ever spoken, Daryl."

"Don't mind talkin' when I'm helping ya."

*

Daryl winning his race gave Rick the motivation to win his, too. His _cold and clinical_ mantra hadn't worked half as well as Daryl's advice had. That fucking turn 8 had messed with his head all week. Rick just couldn't get a grip on it at all. He'd discovered that his dad had VHS tapes of old footage from his racing days, and studied how _he_ had taken the corner.

Rick had felt the weight of everything pressing down on him heavily lately. The responsibility of racing for the best team in Supersport and of not letting Hershel down. Of doing well enough to get re-signed for next season. Of not disappointing his dad. Of the almost grief-like sensation of losing Shane's friendship. And of everything that was going on between he and Daryl. Was he gay? Was Daryl? Did he love him? Was he just full of teenage hormones? And Christ, if his dad found out, what would happen then...?

Sometimes he felt like he was fucking losing it. The pressure of always having to be in control. Being the good guy; his father's son. The one who was expected to win.

Having Daryl in his life was like having a Shane replacement, but tenfold. There was less underlying resentment, for a start; less hollow talk, because most of the time, he and Daryl barely spoke at all. They communicated through looks and gentle touches. It helped Rick sleep better at night knowing that Daryl was only minutes away, holed up in his little room above the garage.

There was talk in the paddock of Shane moving to the same category as Rick next season. Some new team called Governor Engineering. Thinking about Shane being around again made Rick antsy; like the ache of lost friendship he'd had in his guts for over a year now would finally explode out of him. He would have talked to Daryl about it, but anytime Shane's name was so much as hinted at, Daryl would just growl _asshole_ , and that would be the end of the conversation.

In the end, the race was pretty much a walkover. Rick fucked up turn 8 on the first 3 laps, but then found his rhythm, hearing Daryl's voice in his head. _3Rd, 4th, 2nd, soft on the kerb, smooth on the throttle._

Daryl waited for him outside his garage. Rick noted how Daryl hovered outside, as if he didn't dare come in, as if he didn't belong there even though he was all but confirmed as this season's Junior Champion. Rick waved him in, and Daryl tentatively entered the Team Greene garage, looking around wide-eyed at the mechanics. Rick was sitting with his engineer, eating a post-race banana and going over where the bike had felt good and bad. As soon as Daryl was by his side, Rick felt more like a human being and less like a race-winning robot.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"Helping me with that corner. It helped win me the race."

"Hell, there were 16 other turns you did yourself." Daryl stood and chewed a fingernail, unaware of the admiring glances he was receiving. He'd won by a ridiculous 12 seconds today.

*

Daryl was exhausted by the time they got home from Woodbury Raceway. It was a difficult track to race on, and his neck and arms ached. Someone had said that the track owner had hired Shane fucking Walsh to race in his team next year. The prospect of Shane being back, of hanging around Rick, with all of his swaggering self-assuredness, chilled Daryl to the core.

He got back to the ranch, showered in the main house, and then retreated to his room above the garage. Richard had lent him some Steinbeck and Arthur Miller, and Daryl was enjoying getting lost in the world of dust bowls and lower class families. He never read at the racetracks, knowing that people would be looking at him in shock at the prospect of a redneck loser reading great literary works.

He had just changed into his boxers and crawled into bed, when Richard knocked the door lightly. Daryl switched on the lamp and let him in. It was late – almost half 11 – so Daryl decided to get back under the covers and lie down. Richard didn't seem offended, instead pulling the only chair up beside the bed. As was his way, he pressed his fingertips together.

"Daryl, let me give you some advice. Stop being so loyal to me if you want to move onto a bigger team."

Daryl pulled the blanket up around his neck.

"Huh?"

Richard raised an eyebrow.

"You're a slightly better liar than my son, but you're still terrible." He touched Daryl's hair lightly in a gesture that was almost fatherly. "You know what I'm talking about. You've far surpassed everyone else in the junior championship in terms of talent. Come on, you won by what, 11 seconds or something today?"

"12."

"12, then. See? I've never said this to any of my riders before, asides from maybe Rick, but you're wasted in my team. You should be racing in Supersport with Rick. If a team comes knocking – and they will, Daryl – you sign immediately, okay?"

Daryl's vision blurred and he bit down hard on his lip to stop himself from welling up further.

"You were good to me when no-one else was," he told Richard huskily. "Gotta repay that."

Richard sat back in the chair and gave a belly-laugh.

"Kid, have you seen my trophy cabinet? You've repaid me a million times over."

*

Daryl was tinkering with an old Triumph Bonneville TR6C that Richard had bought from a friend a few weeks before. He liked the solitude of the garage and the clinking noise of spanners and wheel nuts as he worked. Only good thing his daddy had ever done was teach him mechanics. Rick was shooting hoops outside, and the rhythmic thud of the ball as he bounced it on the ground was soothing. Then Daryl heard Richard's footsteps and looked up. Richard lent against the doorway of the garage, watching intently.

"You don't mind me working on this do you?"

"Not at all, Daryl. You like it?"

Daryl nodded.

"Yeah... 's probably my favourite bike. Merle had one a lot like this. He chopped it though, made it longer and lower. This one's gonna run better when I'm done with it."

Daryl didn't mention the SS logo Merle had put on that old bike. Besides, it was gone now and so was Merle. Daryl missed them both, that bike had been his dream ride until Merle had swapped it one Saturday night for enough cocaine to last him for months.

He stood up and wiped his hands on his red bandana.

"You here to tell me somethin', or..."

Richard took a deep breath, the sides of his mouth twitching with a smile.

"There's someone here to see you."

"Oh yeah? Who?"

"Hershel Greene."

Daryl swore, then immediately apologised, but Richard waved his hand.

"Sometimes _holy fuck_ is an appropriate reaction, Daryl. Come on."

Daryl followed Richard into the large kitchen, where Hershel was sitting nursing a cup of coffee at the breakfast bar. Daryl pulled up a wrought iron bar stool and sat beside him, his palms sweating.

"I'll go join Rick outside," Richard said, and left.

Hershel turned to look at Daryl, studying him closely. He had a calm aura around him, one of someone who had been around the block more than once and could no longer be shocked by anything. Rick had told Daryl how great he was to race for, always supportive and understanding, as long as he could see you were putting the work in.

Hershel drained the last of his coffee and put his cup down. He made a _Hmm_ noise as he stared at Daryl's hair, that was almost shoulder-length and falling into his eyes in dark blond tendrils.

"You're going to have to have a haircut."

"What?" Daryl blanched. "I mean... what do you mean, sir."

Hershel pursed his lips.

"I mean I want my riders to have a certain appearance, project a certain image. Long hair like you're in one of those heavy metal Satan-worshipping bands isn't it. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

Daryl did. Or, at least he thought he did. But he daren't say the words out loud in case what he hoped for wasn't true. One thing he _did_ know was that he didn't want to get a fucking haircut. And, he noted, Rick hadn't cropped _his_ super-short yet, so...

There was a brief, tense silence before Hershel asked if Daryl had a pen. By the time Daryl had gone to get one from a drawer, Hershel had produced a thick wad of paper.

"I want you racing next year for me, Daryl. You get someone to read through this contract, and if you're agreeable to it all, I want you to sign the last page."

Did Hershel wonder if he could even read and write, Daryl thought. Folks didn't exactly associate his surname with education.

"What's wrong?" Hershel asked. "You just got offered the best motorcycle in Supersport and you look like you have the world's problems on your shoulders."

Daryl ran his hands through his greasy hair.

"Jus'... why me? You could pick anyone to ride for you."

"Two reasons. One, you're a talented boy." Daryl scrunched his nose up, and Hershel rolled his eyes. "Now don't give me that shy look, like you don't know it. The other reason is... not many people know, or remember, but I used to have a drinking problem. I see how it broke my daughter Maggie's heart, seeing me in that state. Maybe if I help a kid who suffered at the hands of another alcoholic, it can somehow absolve me of some of the crap I put my family through."

Daryl was aware his mouth was hanging open. Someone so placid and reliable like Hershel? An old drunk? He narrowed his eyes warily. He wasn't sure he wanted to work for someone who could turn out like his daddy.

"You ever bad to 'em? Ever hurt 'em?"

Hershel didn't look offended. He shook his head.

"Not physically, no. But you can cause hurt just as bad as physical pain, if you want to. Maybe pain as bad as anything your father might have inflicted on you."

Daryl stood up, taking the lid off the pen. He took the contract from Hershel and flipped to the back page immediately. Before he put pen to paper, he gave Hershel a nod.

"Just want you to know – you ain't like my daddy, Mr Greene. Not at all."

*

Rick was lying on his bed when Hershel Greene finally left his home. His dad told him that there was some news, but that he'd let Daryl explain everything. Rick could already guess, there had been whisperings amongst the team's mechanics for weeks now about it. But when Daryl appeared at his bedroom door, Rick told him to come in, and let Daryl announce that the two of them would be teammates next year.

"Well _duh_ ," Rick laughed, grabbing Daryl's hand and pulling him down onto the bed to lie beside him. For once, Daryl obliged without the usual reluctance and flinching away.

They both stared up at the ceiling as Rick's radio played chart hits. He waited for Daryl to complain about it, but he didn't.

"Where's your dad?"

"Gone out for a beer with Hershel. Well, beer for just him, that is. You know that..."

"Yeah, I know," Daryl replied. "He told me."

"You ever tried liquor?" Rick asked, and Daryl nodded.

"'Course I have. Me and Merle used to get shitfaced sometimes. A lot of times. I dunno, it tastes real bad but sometimes we had fun, I guess. You?"

"No," Rick replied. "I guess I haven't done much of anything."

Rick listened to Daryl's steady breathing. It was the calmest Rick had ever seen him. He was excited about the prospect of racing with Daryl next year too, of having someone to travel from state to state with, and share information about the bike with. And he'd been in the team for almost a year now, so he could show Daryl the ropes and help him get to know all of the people and the way things were done. For a brief second, the image of Daryl in black and neon green leathers flashed into Rick's mind, and he shivered.

"You cold?"

"No," Rick shook his head. "Just thinking."

"'bout what?"

_You_ , Rick wanted to shout. _You in tight racing leathers. You, in those leathers, lying beside me on a bed, like we are right now. Leathers unzipped to the waist. Damp skin underneath. Your dick._

"Thinking this is nice, just lying here," Rick settled for saying.

"Sure is. Hey, Hershel told me I had to cut my hair. I'm so pissed, Rick."

"Whaaaaat?" Rick laughed, leaning over to tug gently at a strand. "Why? When it's so clean and tidy?"

"Fuck off," Daryl retorted, but he was smiling. "Yours is a fuckin' mess right now too."

Daryl reached up to wind one of Rick's curls around his finger.

"Might get the shears and cut these off myself."

Rick slapped Daryl's hand away playfully, getting up onto his knees to purposely muss up the other boy's long hair. Daryl put his hands on Rick's stomach to try to push him away, but Rick continued, his hands sliding downwards to cup Daryl's face. He paused, realising that Daryl was no longer struggling. The atmosphere didn't seem as relaxed all of a sudden, and on the radio someone was crooning _What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you..._

He smoothed his thumb across the barely-there blond stubble on Daryl's cheek, feeling Daryl's quickening breath against his hand. Rick looked at him, silently asking a question.

"Yeah," Daryl whispered, and then Rick was kissing him. Kissing him on his own bed when nobody else was home.

Rick's legs were on either side of Daryl's waist, straddling him. Daryl arched up to meet his kisses, his strong arms wrapped around Rick's shoulders.

Rick pushed up the grey t-shirt Daryl was wearing, amazed that Daryl let him. Presented with Daryl's trim stomach and visible ribs, Rick found himself at a loss as to what to do next. He'd never been close to someone else's naked skin before, but he knew he wanted to touch it. Daryl's nipples were brown and pert with a few stray hairs around them. Rick thought about the porno Shane had shown him once. The girls seemed to have liked having theirs sucked and pinched, so Rick placed his lips around one, enjoying the way Daryl breathed _Jesus_ as he did so.

Rick waited for the soft _stop_ that always came, but this time it didn't. He tore his mouth away from Daryl's skin and went back to kissing him. Daryl's eyes were squeezed tightly shut, but he was kissing back eagerly.

Rick was as hard as stone now, the outline of his cock obvious through the thin flannel pyjama bottoms he was wearing. He felt a hand brush against the length of it, and had to stop himself from yelping. Did he dare? He jerked forward against Daryl's groin, the denim of Daryl's jeans feeling rough and satisfying against his dick. He did it again, giving a groan at how good it felt. On the third thrust, Daryl bucked his hips upward slightly, and Rick looked down to see the thick bulge in his jeans.

Rick pressed his face into the crook of Daryl's shoulder, their panting breaths matching each other's. Daryl was clawing at his back as Rick kept rutting against him, chasing the delicious friction. His head felt light, like he was going to pass out, or like he was floating above his own body. If he did, he would have seen Daryl's head thrown back, mouth open, and his own body moving up and down as he ground his dick against Daryl's. He could smell fresh sweat and feel a damp patch forming on the inside of his pyjama bottoms. Daryl reached down and gripped the outline of his dick before snatching his hand away just as quickly. It didn't matter, it was more than enough. Rick gave a strangled gasp and came inside his trousers, warm come spilling on the tops of his thighs and his softening cock sticking to the material.

He collapsed on top of Daryl, selfishly, as the other boy was still hard. Nothing in his life had ever felt as good as coming while he was on top of Daryl Dixon's writhing body, not even winning.

As he lay there, a little nagging voice – his dad's of course – came into his head, saying _the first person you have to beat in racing is always your teammate_ , but he chose to ignore it, just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Everything I do (I Do it For You) was of course the Bryan Adams song that was in the charts for like ever in 1991.  
> 2\. The corner that Daryl helps Rick with is based on Acque Minerali at Imola.  
> 3\. The song playing in Rick's bedroom at the end is Wicked Game by Chris Isaak. Perhaps Norman fans will know why I chose that song.
> 
> Massive thanks as always to readers and commenters. It's been a really hard week, not only in TWD fandom but also in my own personal life, so comments are appreciated more than you know.


	6. 6.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Rick had never raced so well as he was now that he and Daryl were teammates. He felt on top of the world, wondering how he could ever have felt the way he had the season before, when the pressure felt like it could become too much sometimes. His dad was happy with him, Hershel was too, and he could spend the hours when he wasn't on a bike kissing Daryl Dixon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently there's no rhyme or reason when it comes to the word count in my chapters. This one is a little longer, and chapter 7, which I'm currently still writing, is almost 9,000 words at this point. That means that there will probably be a two week break between updates just until I get a little further ahead again. I really hope chapters 6 and 7 make up for that!
> 
> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/

It was a month before the new season began, and Rick and Daryl were lying on Rick's bedroom floor, talking about which cities they were most excited to go to together.

"Don't matter," Daryl had said at first, scratching his belly and yawning. "Only bit we'll see will be the racetrack anyway. That's the only bit I _want_ to see."

Daryl eventually conceded he was looking forward to seeing the ocean for the first time.

"Hell, being over the state line will be the furthest I've ever gone."

He'd seemed embarrassed at that, but Rick had shrugged. He himself had travelled around the country as a young kid, back when his dad was still racing and before his mom had died, and he knew that that was a different life than the majority of his contemporaries had had, not just someone like Daryl.

"Aw man, you're going to _hate_ Vegas and LA," Rick laughed, poking Daryl in the side of the stomach.

Daryl poked him back.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah! You'll say they're full of pricks."

"I'll probably think that about Washington too. All those assholes in suits in the White House, tellin' us little people what to do." Daryl gave a dry chuckle. "Man, it makes me laugh though to think how pissed my daddy must be that Clinton got in."

Rick sighed.

"You know my dad's going to be travelling with us all year, right? Says he needs to keep an eye on us. Wants me to share hotel rooms with him so we don't distract each other or stay up all night talking."

Daryl turned over onto his back and put an arm behind his head.

"Good. Anything that keeps you from pawin' me," he grunted.

Rick put a hand on Daryl's stomach and let the tips of his fingers slip beneath the waistband of his jeans briefly. The first time Rick had done that, Daryl's knees had shot up and Rick had pulled his hand away. Now, Daryl lay back, letting Rick's hand slide further down, rubbing him gently over the top of his underwear. He could feel Daryl hardening, gripping his large, warm cock in his hand. Rick began to breathe heavily, enjoying Daryl's little moan as he squeezed his dick gently. Rick rested his head on his elbow as he smoothed his hand across the thin material of Daryl's boxers.

The front door slammed and Richard's voice called out.

"Boys? You up there?"

Rick's hand shot out from Daryl's jeans and he jumped up, running a hand through his hair and adjusting himself in his sweatpants. Daryl rolled onto his front to hide his softening cock, flicking through a comic book that had been lying under Rick's bed.

"Yeah dad," Rick replied, once the scene looked vaguely back to normal and not like he'd just had his hand on his best friend's dick.

"Got us all some fried chicken. Get on down here, when the season starts you'll not be eating any crap like this."

Rick put his head back and exhaled. Daryl finally got up off the floor, his face red from repressed laughter and what Rick had just been doing to him.

"I wanted to..." Rick began, and Daryl shrugged.

"Don't matter."

Rick was about to leave the bedroom when Daryl grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Rick felt himself shoved back against the wall, and then Daryl was giving him a searing kiss, mouth warm and the air filled with the soft smacking noise of lips and tongues.

"One day," Daryl whispered into his mouth.

*

Rick felt quite breathless at the beginning of the new season when he saw Daryl in his Team Greene leathers for the first time. The black and neon green suited him, contrasting with his newly shorn dark blond hair. Somehow he managed to still have it falling in his eyes, though, despite its shorter length. The haircut revealed Daryl's bone structure and slightly gaunt cheeks, showing how his features had changed from an almost baby-face into something much more lean and angular.

"How will I keep my hands off you?" he had joked, but Daryl had scowled, saying _You'll keep 'em where I can fuckin' see 'em until I say otherwise._

Despite Daryl's resolve, that hadn't taken long, and Rick had soon discovered that motorbike leathers could feel really fucking restrictive when you had an erection. Not that Daryl had helped – they were still strictly over-the-clothes-only action.

Rick wondered if the way Daryl left him frustrated and achingly hard all the time was helping him win; like the pent-up need within him added a second a lap. He'd never raced so well as he was now that he and Daryl were teammates. He felt on top of the world, wondering how he could ever have felt the way he had the season before, when the pressure felt like it could become too much sometimes. His dad was happy with him, Hershel was too, and he could spend the hours when he wasn't on a bike kissing Daryl Dixon.

He had won the first race of the season, then the second, then the third. He loved going up onto the podium, seeing the guys who worked so hard on his bike beneath him, cheering and chanting his name. The promo girls would applaud, smiling at him with teeth made whiter-looking by thick red lipstick, their skirts short and cleavage lifted as highly as possible. Some of the mechanics made comments to Rick about them, about how he could have his pick of them, but Rick would always wink and smile and pretend he was too gentlemanly to tell. In reality, when Daryl was there, Rick didn't even notice the long legs and high heels of the girls.

After each win, more and more microphones would be shoved into his face. Already people asked him when he thought he could move up to the main Superbike category. _Soon I hope_ was all Rick could come up with. His dad had told him to be careful of journalists; that all they wanted was a soundbite; that they would try to create drama between riders to sell newspapers and magazines. Everyone wanted rivalries and wars of words and Rick had been warned many times by Richard not to give them one.

He and Daryl shared everything – how best to set up their bikes, how to take certain kinds of corners, what tyres to use. Hershel said he'd never had two teammates that were so open with one another. Lots of teammates had mutual respect, he'd told them, but they were rarely friends, let alone as close as brothers.

*

_Last of the late brakers_ , Hershel called him. Daryl took it as a compliment, even if it wasn't necessarily meant as one. He knew what people thought, that he had no discipline, that he was going to come a cropper one of these days if he kept racing the way he did. But it was working. Well, sometimes it did. Rick had a year's more experience on a Supersport bike, and it showed. He knew the way the tyres worked better, how they had to be saved at the beginning of the race so that by the end they weren't disintegrating. Daryl kept burning his out, going all guns blazing at the beginning of each race and then inevitably falling behind towards the end.

Had still won two races so far, though. Wet ones, just like the early days. None of the riders were scared, but he was even less so. He just didn't care if he fucked up and crashed out. At least he was trying. At least he was _brave_.

"You're almost 18," Hershel had warned him, after another wipe out that had fucked up his ankle some. "There's three things I want. One, for you to see 19. Two, for you not to end up in hospital with a broken collarbone. And three, for you not to ruin any more of my motorcycles with your dumb behaviour. Am I making myself clear?"

Daryl had sheepishly nodded.

"Take a leaf out of Rick's book," he had been told. "Learn how to save your tyres. I know telling you that you can lose a race on the first lap is a cliche, but it's true."

He'd watched videos of some of the races back, trying to learn as best he could. Rick laughed, called him a geek, but he did the same. All the riders did these days; anything to gain the tiniest advantage over their rivals and come out on top.

Daryl took his third victory at the next race. They were in Virginia, at the Alexandria Park circuit, and it was so close to Georgia that it still felt like a home win. The crowd certainly seemed to think so. Man, some of them went nuts in the crowd, waving black and green flags and punching the air as Daryl crossed the line. Even halfway through the season, being admired by people who didn't know or had never met him was baffling and embarrassing. Daryl just wanted to race.

He felt awkward as fuck any time anyone asked for his autograph, and that was certainly something that was happening more and more frequently now. Fame wasn't something that Daryl had realised would happen when he progressed to Supersport. He wasn't prepared for it, and he didn't fucking like it. Having to plaster a fake smile to his face and interact with fans who just wanted something to brag to their stupid friends about.

He didn't know how Rick did it. Rick played the game, smiling and grinning and being charming. Everyone wanted a piece of him. He was young and talented and good-looking – not to mention he was the son of Richard Grimes. Fans of his dad automatically supported him too, craving more glory days and the continuation of a racing dynasty. Sometimes, after a busy weekend of racing, fans and plane journeys, Rick would be ashen-faced with stress and exhaustion. Daryl himself struggled sometimes. He'd never been on a plane before, or a train, even, and this new world of travel and indentical hotels was completely alien to him. The crowds, the noise... he loved his job, but man, he missed being alone with only the birds and the squirrels for company.

*

Rick looked out of the hotel room window to see palm trees silhouetted against a watermelon-pink sunset. Three floors below he and his dad's room, the swimming pool glistened under spotlights. It was early Fall and still too warm at just before 11pm. He took off his shirt and threw it onto the pale blue cover on his bed, moving his neck from side to side to ease the tight muscles he had after the day's race.

He'd won. Again. There was just nobody to challenge him. Nobody apart from Daryl that is, but Daryl had spent the early part of the season getting to grips with the team and the new bike, and Rick had built up enough of a lead to be comfortably ahead on points with only a few races to go. Daryl had run him close today, that was for sure. There'd only been 2 tenths of a second in it, and Rick knew that if he'd been anything else but perfect in the last few laps, Daryl would have stolen the win from him.

On the slowing down lap, Rick had stood up on the bike and waved his arms in the air, Daryl coming along beside him and holding an arm out for Rick to grab and shake. In parc ferme, the spot where they had to park their bikes before going onto the podium, they had embraced, and Daryl had put his hands on either side of Rick's helmet, yelling _fucking hell, that was close_ at him. The team members surrounding them had cheered and applauded, knowing they had the two best racers in Supersport in their team.

Rick loved racing against Daryl, he was honest and fair and forced Rick to up his game. Daryl had grown up having nothing, getting nothing, and expecting nothing – so he wasn't bitter when he was beaten, because he was still living the kind of life he hadn't even dared dream of.

If Rick had had a better time in his life, he couldn't remember. Not since he was a little boy in his mom's arms, before she got sick. He swallowed hard, pushing images of her smiling face out of his mind. He knew he'd gotten his gentle eyes and red lips from her, and folks told him he'd also got her way of always thinking the best of people, of being kind.

He'd sliced past other riders today in a clinical, precise way; the way his dad had always told him to. Daryl was more of a seat-of-his-pants rider, and when Rick watched videos of the races on Sunday evenings, he could see why journalists and fans were starting to say that Daryl Dixon was the most exciting rider they had seen in years. Decades, even. But _Boring wins_ , his dad had said.

The sky was deepening to magenta now, and there was the thud of music coming from somewhere - that Meatloaf song that was everywhere that was making Daryl irrational with rage, due to its omnipresence on TV and radio.

"That fuckin' song again?" Daryl's voice was thick with irritation as he emerged from the bathroom.

"Yeah, you love it really," Rick smiled sleepily.

"What time's your dad comin' back at?" Daryl asked. Richard was downstairs embroiled in a meeting with some young rider's management about a ride with Grimes Racing the following year.

Rick shrugged.

"Any minute now, I guess. Our flight back to Atlanta's at 6am tomorrow."

Daryl groaned. He wasn't a fan of early mornings, and was a nightmare to deal with when he first woke up. Rick couldn't help looking him up and down – his bare arms were deeply tanned, highlighted by the black t-shirt he was wearing that Daryl had torn the sleeves from.

"Best be getting back to my room, then."

"Yup," Rick nodded.

Rick felt Daryl press his body against his naked back, his lips brushing against Rick's rhomboid muscles. The heat from Daryl's body contrasted with the light evening breeze coming through the balcony doors, and Rick let his chin drop against his chest with satisfaction.

"Y'alright?" Daryl breathed.

"Mmm."

Rick could feel Daryl's moist mouth continue its path across his skin. It was unlike Daryl to do this, he was normally too uncomfortable with touch and affection to initiate anything. He wrapped a hand around Rick's waist, and Rick grabbed his hand.

"What's gotten into you? Has the LA sun gone to your head?"

Daryl gave a low, dry laugh. His reply came as a mumble as his lips were still pressed against Rick's back.

"Jus' had a bit of whiskey from the mini-bar, is all."

" _Daryl!_ " Rick scolded, but his good-natured scorn was cut dead as Daryl slid his hand down the front of Rick's sweatpants.

"J...Jesus," Rick stuttered, as Daryl grabbed his dick, rubbing it gently as it hardened. Rick felt himself swelling and growing, and Daryl pulled his hand away, spat on it with a force that might have made Rick cringe if he wasn't so turned on, then put it back to resume his rubbing.

"You should drink more often if this is what happens," Rick whispered, but Daryl shushed him.

Rick turned his head to meet Daryl's lips, and kissed him messily. Saliva and heat and the slightest taste of alcohol. Daryl's grip on Rick's cock was tighter than Rick's own normally was, but he enjoyed the pressure of it, the squeeze as Daryl's hand began to move up and down faster and faster. Rick couldn't help his body from pushing forward to meet Daryl's fingers.

Daryl's mouth left his and pressed against the back of Rick's neck, and Rick could hear Daryl's breath begin to come in rasps, and feel a hardness against the back of his thigh. They were both sweating now, and Rick couldn't stop himself from groaning, all the while having the thought in the back of his mind that his dad could walk in at any minute.

"Fuck, Daryl," Rick panted, slumping forward a little while Daryl put his free arm around Rick's waist to steady him.

"C'mon," Daryl grunted, pinching the head of Rick's wet dick gently, smearing pre-come along his length before jerking him rapidly. "Hurry up and come before my wrist breaks, don't need to prove to me that you ain't a quick shooter."

Rick did, and hard. He felt the wetness seeping through the front of his trousers as he exploded into Daryl's palm and through his fingers. His knees felt like they were going to buckle beneath him, like he would collapse onto the floor if it wasn't for Daryl holding onto him for dear life. Daryl's hand was still on his dick, still stroking it as it softened. Rick slid his own hand under the material, lifting Daryl's hand out, feeling the warm come against both their slippery palms.

"Don't move," Daryl growled, and Rick heard a zipper going down, the movement of hands and material, and felt Daryl buck against his ass as he jerked himself off against Rick's exhausted body. Daryl came quickly and silently, tucking himself back into his jeans and wiping a hand on the underside of his t-shirt.

"I could have..." Rick began, but Daryl looked downwards, refusing to meet his eyes. The lazy, spent look in Daryl's just-come eyes would have gotten Rick hard again if he hadn't been so done from racing and what had just happened.

"Don't need to," Daryl half-snapped, but he grabbed Rick's face, giving him a kiss that was all want and gratitude and heat.

Life was so, so good.

*

Daryl had never seen Rick's dad so angry as when he found out about the whiskey from the hotel room mini-bar. Rick had covered for him, said it had been the two of them; a little celebration after Rick's race win – but Daryl knew by the way that Richard was looking at him that he knew the truth. He'd made Daryl paint nearly every fence on the ranch as penance. Daryl didn't mind doing it, if he was honest. It had been a dumb-fuck move, stealing the liquor, so he deserved the punishment. Was fun, though. Daryl wasn't convinced he had learned his lesson, although he still felt slightly ashamed about what he had done with Rick. He knew if he'd been a girl, he'd have been called a prick-tease, the way he'd let Rick go so far and then pull away. A little Dutch courage meant that Rick could stop going out of his mind with lust, if only for a little while.

Daryl couldn't stop thinking about the way Rick's cock had felt in his hand. So smooth and weighty. His mouth watered a little at the memory of jerking him off, of feeling Rick become completely at his mercy. He lay back on his hotel room bed, palming himself over his jeans and biting his bottom lip as he contemplated going to Rick's room for more of the same.

They were in Houston this weekend, and Daryl felt more comfortable now that he was back in the South. Up in those other states, he felt self-conscious about his accent and his upbringing. In upstate New York, he'd tried frozen yogurt and the girl behind the counter had howled with laughter when he'd said it was his first time. Daryl knew she didn't mean any harm, but it was the small things like that that set him out as being different, as being the same old hick he always was.

One thing Daryl was good at was getting rid of all those insecurities by riding well. On a bike, it didn't matter if he was some dirt-poor redneck from a family of drunks and meth-heads. He was faster and smarter than anyone else once his helmet was on and his hand was on the throttle.

Rick was ahead of him in points, and Daryl knew that in a couple of races Rick would win the Championship. He was happy for him. Winning was Rick's destiny, _his_ birth-right – not Daryl's. All the same, Rick had gotten his bike set-up wrong for the sweeping Houston track, and lagged behind Daryl for the whole race. By the last lap he had fallen back even further, and only came third. For the champion-in-waiting, third was a poor result.

Daryl stood on the top step of the podium, looking at his feet, or the sky – anywhere but at the crowd or the team members below. Some riders jumped up and down when they got up there, putting on a show for everyone watching. That wasn't Daryl's style. He didn't even care about getting a trophy – as soon as it was handed to him, he knew he'd be giving to Hershel, who was far more appreciative. He attempted a wave, but felt stupid as shit doing it. He turned to look at Rick on his left. Rick wasn't waving either, and his face looked pale and greasy.

"You oka..." Daryl began, and then watched as Rick fell forward and landed on the floor.

Daryl jumped down from the step and to his knees.

"Rick? Rick!" Daryl placed a hand on Rick's shoulder, shaking him a little. His heart was hammering with panic, and for the moment he didn't give two shits if he showed more than normal friendly concern. Rick's eyes flicked open and he immediately tried to get up.

"Hey buddy, I got ya," Daryl soothed, putting a hand on Rick's back and helping him sit up. Rick shook his head from side to side and widened his eyes. "You good?"

"Just felt dizzy there, for a second," Rick replied, slurring his words slightly. The team members below were looking up with concern, and one of the track officials told Daryl that Rick's dad was on his way up. Rick rubbed his forehead. "There's no need for all the fuss, and my dad doesn't need to come up here."

"You slumped to the ground, Rick," Daryl said, helping him onto his feet. Rick's face was grey. "Thought you were out cold for a second, there."

Rick wriggled out of Daryl's grasp, seeming irritated with Daryl for the first time since he'd known him.

"Guess the heat got to me. Didn't have much for lunch, either."

Rick stalked off, Daryl following close behind as they walked down the pitlane and back to the motorhomes. Daryl let him be. He was good at that – staying out of the way when he sensed anger, or tension. He'd grown up making himself scarce when that kind of shit went down; he just didn't think he'd ever have to do it because of Rick.

*

The medics at the track had checked him out, his dad had fussed around him like he was an invalid, and Daryl had looked at him with worried eyes. Jeez, Rick thought, couldn't a guy have a simple attack of fainting without people acting like he was dying or something?

He'd just been tired, and too warm, and hadn't really eaten that day. Mostly tired, if he was honest. He hadn't been sleeping very well. At all, some nights. When he closed his eyes, he could see corners, the back wheel of a bike in front of him, the chequered flag being waved in front of somebody else while his bike went slower and slower and slower.

When he _did_ sleep, he had nightmares of bike crashes, of Daryl and he falling out, of his dad being disappointed in him, of Shane laughing at him, and his mom being sick. He'd wake up, sweating and shaking, not knowing where he was – at home, or in yet another hotel room. At home, if Daryl had stayed in his bedroom, sometimes he would wake up to find him holding his hand, or saying Shhh reassuringly. Once, when Rick's heartbeat had slowed down and he'd splashed water on his face, Daryl had crawled into bed beside him and jerked him off with long, smooth strokes, whispering _There, I got ya_ , and letting Rick come in his hand.

There was one race left this season. Rick had enough of a points lead that all he needed was a third place to win the Championship. He was relieved that the last race was in Savannah so that they could travel straight back home afterwards – the merry-go-round of airports and different hotels was always exciting at the beginning of the season, but Rick couldn't wait to wake up in his own bed every morning, to go jogging with the dogs, to sit and stare out the window with a glass of orange juice and slice of toast in his hand. He liked that. To try to empty his mind and just look out at... nothing.

The night before the race, he and Daryl went for a walk around the streets near their hotel. In the shadowy darkness under some live oak trees, Rick longed to push Daryl against the wrought iron railings and kiss him, but Daryl would never dare in such a public place.

"Smells like swamp here," he spat onto the ground, and Rick slapped his arm.

"I like it."

They strolled across the street to a cemetery, chatting idly about the tyres they had chosen for the race. Rick had qualified on pole, but Daryl had had brake problems and was much further down in 10th. Rick didn't need Daryl to be beside him on the grid, but he had so much to lose that it would have made him feel much better to have him close by during the race, stealing points away from other riders.

"Ya chose the wet tyre?" Daryl asked.

Rick nodded, temporarily distracted by an ornately carved angel headstone looming ahead.

"Yeah. Didn't you?"

"Hell no," Daryl replied. "It ain't gonna rain tomorrow. Don't need that tyre."

Rick sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. It had rained for the past two days and he'd picked the harder of the two tyres available because they would give him more grip on a wet track.

"The weather guy in the team says..."

"Says what?" Daryl said with a shrug; as always completely laid back in comparison to the pre-race stresses Rick felt. "Tellin' ya – ain't gonna rain. Can't _smell_ it."

"Well maybe that's 'cause all you can smell is swamp, asshole," Rick chided, a fake smile on his face. Daryl laughed and told him maybe he was wrong and Rick was right.

Truth was, Rick had never known Daryl to be wrong about the weather. His hands began to feel prickly with sweat, and there was a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Suddenly, he felt creeped out by the Spanish moss and Antebellum houses; queasy and disoriented. He heard Daryl asking him if he was alright, but his voice sounded as if it was coming from miles away.

"Takin' you back to the hotel," the voice said, and Rick nodded weakly.

"Bed," he murmured.

"You ain't been well since the day you fainted," Daryl shook his head. "Let's get some sleep and get your championship over and done with tomorrow afternoon, okay?"

Rick just nodded.

*

Rick put a leg on either side of his bike, staring straight ahead at an empty track. The smooth black asphalt was full of foreboding in a way it had never been before. Around him, there was the hustle and bustle of crew members, grid girls, and media. People he didn't know were shouting _GOOD LUCK!_ at him; their words sounding muffled outside of his helmet. His dad came to give him a rare hug; Hershel too, telling him to do his best, he had nothing else to prove, the title would be his in 25 laps. Rick didn't acknowledge any of them, just stared straight ahead.

One of his team handed him his gloves, but he fumbled, dropping them onto the ground. He looked down, seeing a hand grabbing them and handing them to him. It was Daryl, his helmet not even on yet even though they were minutes away from lights out. Rick had never seen him look so handsome – tight black leathers zipped up and clinging tight against his ever more muscular body, and steel blue-grey eyes narrowed with pre-race adrenalin and concern.

"You should be on your bike!" Rick hollered from inside his helmet and above the noise of the grid and grandstands.

"Fuck it," Daryl answered, placing a hand on Rick's shoulder. "Had to see ya before your big race. Y'okay?"

Rick didn't answer. He looked down at the fuel tank between his legs, at the billowing Team Greene flags scattered around the grandstands, and then at Daryl.

"Fucking freaking out, Daryl. Help me."

His voice sounded strangled. His hands were shaking, so much so he didn't think he would be able to twist the throttle. Daryl grabbed his left hand, holding the glove out and sliding it on delicately before doing the same with Rick's right hand. It took a while, Rick's hands quivering and knuckles bending up and down. People were looking at them now, at this strange moment of tenderness between two teammates, but for once, it didn't seem like Daryl cared.

The gloves were on now, Daryl leaning right against Rick to yell into his ear. Despite the crowds, it was an oddly intimate moment.

"You have this, Rick. It's a long run down to the first corner; all ya need to do is get around turn 1 and then no fucker will get near ya if ya accelerate to turn 2 and then fuck off way into the distance. I'll be behind ya in no time; those eight assholes between you and me ain't got a chance of stopping me from getting right behind ya to back ya up."

In that moment, with Daryl's eyes wide and his face animated with passion, Rick realised he was in love with him. Wonderfully, terribly, _painfully_ in love with Daryl Dixon.

He'd changed his tyres, after Daryl had told him it wouldn't rain.

He was going to win this race.

*

Rick had won the Championship, as it was always destined he would. People didn't say it out loud, but he'd made it hard for himself; losing two places after lap 4 when he went onto the rumblestrip too hard and let other riders past. All he'd needed was a third place, and it was just as well. Daryl had gone from 10th to 4th and then hung back, taking a couple of chicanes wrong just so he wouldn't get close enough to Rick to overtake him. Maybe a more ruthless teammate would have gone past, snatched the third place from Rick even if it meant him losing the title – and if his teammate had been anyone else, then yeah, Daryl might have done exactly that, but it was _Rick_ , godammit, and Daryl wanted him to win.

Daryl was coming back from the woods outside the ranch with Jack when he saw Richard in the distance, fixing a fence.

"Want a hand?" he asked, and Richard nodded, handing him a hammer.

Daryl got down on his knees, carefully banging a nail into a wooden picket.

"Where's Rick?" Richard asked, holding the wood steady so Daryl could finish.

Daryl shrugged.

"He seem okay to you lately?"

Daryl didn't want to sell Rick out, but part of him was relieved that Richard was asking.

"Guess he maybe got kinda stressed out towards the end of the season."

"He say anything to you about it?"

"Not really," Daryl felt like he was betraying Rick even if talking to Richard about it all was the right thing to do.

Richard took the hammer back off Daryl and stood up, taking a few steps backwards to check their work. He spoke slowly and thoughtfully, much like Rick did.

"Look, the reason I was so angry about the whiskey that time was because I depend on you to keep Rick balanced. Be his right hand man, if you know what I mean. And I know you're not your brother, or your dad, and I know teenage boys do stuff like that – but Rick _needs_ you."

"Don't think Rick needs nobody, sir."

"He does," Richard said quietly. "He wouldn't say so much, but you know... he thinks a bit too much."

Daryl bit his lip, nodded, and stood up, wiping his hands on his t-shirt. He could sense Rick behind him before Richard even noticed his son was there.

"Interesting chat," Rick spat, and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> 1\. Anyone else old af like me who remembers I'd Do Anything for Love by Meatloaf being everywhere in '93?!  
> 2\. Norman's looks change a lot, so in my head, Daryl at this point in the fic is Floating-era Reedus.
> 
> I am so very grateful for the lovely comments people have been leaving. Thanks to all new commenters and to regulars who have kindly left one on each chapter. If you're reading and haven't commented, I'd love to hear your thoughts :)


	7. 7.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Daryl wondered if Richard noticed the tiredness on Rick's face just like he had recently. Defending a championship was tougher than winning one, everyone said. Daryl couldn't imagine feeling anything but happy just to take race wins._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope no-one has forgotten about this fic over the two weeks since I last posted! Anyway this chapter is by far the longest one yet... enjoy ;)
> 
> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/

"Your dad told me he found a new helmet guy," Daryl yawned, stoking the logs on the camp fire with his boot. He lay back down onto the ground and reached out to pat Jack.

Rick whistled and Jack left Daryl's side. They'd been arguing all weekend about who the dog loved best now.

"Yeah," Rick nodded, pulling a bag of marshmallows out of his rucksack. He popped one into his mouth and handed another to Daryl. "He figures that as I am the champion I should have a logo or a nickname or something. What do you reckon?"

Daryl took his pocket knife out and began sharpening the end of a stick. He slid 3 marshmallows onto the end, and held it above the fire. Jack ran to his side when he began to speak.

"Think if you can come up with something, why not?"

"Well what would _you_ choose?"

Daryl pulled a face, twisting the stick around 360 degrees.

"...Dunno."

He looked over, seeing the mirth on Rick's face.

"Oh you SO know. Come on, spill!"

Daryl poked a finger into the melting marshmallows and stuck a large pink globule in his mouth. He handed Rick the stick.

"Guess Merle always had a black cat on his. Looked pretty bad-ass."

Daryl didn't expect Rick to appreciate either the idea of it, or the mention of Merle, but his face broke into a delighted smile. Daryl had a sneaking suspicion that a younger Rick had maybe thought that Merle Dixon was kind of fucking cool, for a time. Daryl once had too. But then, he had experienced the cruel, mocking side of his big brother that Rick would never have seen.

Didn't mean he wouldn't maybe like to honour Merle's memory by using his old helmet logo, though. The racing Merle, that is. Not asshole, drug dealing, put-Daryl-down-at-every-opportunity Merle.

Rick moved across to sit down beside Daryl, the dog now happily ensconced between them. He held a fingerful of marshmallow up to Daryl's mouth. Daryl paused for a second, then took Rick's finger into his mouth, sucking off the melted treat. He heard Rick's breath catch in his throat.

"Python," Rick whispered.

Daryl almost choked.

"What ya on about?"

Rick chuckled.

"My helmet," he grinned. "My grandpa had one, a .357. You think that'd look cool?"

"Not bad," Daryl replied, and Rick raised his eyebrows.

"A black cat and a python. How cool is that?"

"Calm down, Grimes," Daryl rolled his eyes. "And any jokes about yer python tonight and I'm sleepin' elsewhere."

It had been a blissful 3 days hiking in the woods north of Atlanta. Daryl had bitched at first about camping in a state park instead of the _real_ woods he had grown up in, but he was secretly won over by the sun-dappled forests and cool, glass-like lakes. Rick's dad had suggested that the two of them take some time out to relax before the new season started. Daryl wondered if Richard noticed the tiredness on Rick's face just like he had recently. Defending a championship was tougher than winning one, everyone said. Daryl couldn't imagine feeling anything but happy just to take race wins.

He and Rick had spent their days finding new trails through the lush green ferns and awe-inspiring pines, leaping from rocks into the lake, and drying themselves off on the rocky mountaintops. Daryl loved to watch Rick lying back like a lizard, his paler skin becoming more bronzed and his wet hair curling as it dried. Most of all, he liked the shadow of Rick's profile as he turned his face up to the sun – his long nose and sculpted jaw. They were 18, and Daryl couldn't even reconcile the gangly, frizzy-haired boy he had met at 13 with the strong, charming man Rick was becoming now. Of course, when Rick caught him looking, Daryl would cough and immediately avert his eyes. Couldn't have Grimes getting a big head.

They set up their tent as far away from the main campsites as they could, taking turns to cook over the fire, and fetch fresh water. Over the noise of the fire crackling, they'd sit and chat until it got dark every evening. Aside from chatting about their new helmets, they barely mentioned racing, content to have a few days away from that world. Daryl would have spoken about it, he missed the thrill of competition and the feel and noise of the bike between his legs, but he could sense that Rick was happy to just be Rick for a while, not 1993 US Supersport Champion Richard Grimes Junior.

"Could stay here longer," Rick murmured sleepily. "Forever."

Daryl stoked the fire with a stick, enjoying the sound of Rick's tired, slurred words.

"Me an' your dad were just worried about you, that time," he began tentatively. "Didn't mean nothin' bad by it. Didn't go behind yer back or nothin'."

"I know." Rick sat up, clicking his fingers at Jack. He opened the porch at the front of the tent, coaxing Jack into his bed and giving him a biscuit.

"Your dad cares about you." Daryl walked over to give Jack a pat. He zipped open the main part of the tent where he and Rick had been sleeping. It was a mess of their sleeping bags and a large red blanket – it got cold at nighttime.

"I know that too."

"We um... both do," Daryl croaked, backing inside the tent. He pulled his shirt off, and waited. He could still hear the fire hissing and snapping, and see how it cast a golden glow across Rick's face. Rick's expression was pensive, looking from the fire to the entrance to the tent. For a moment Daryl wondered if Rick would sleep outside.

"I'm _okay_ , Daryl," he eventually said.

"Know you are."

Daryl wriggled further backwards inside as Rick paced slowly towards the tent. He knelt down, taking off his sweater and jeans before scrunching them into a ball and setting them down beside Jack's bed.

"No barking, okay?" Rick told the pit bull softly, giving him one last stroke before crawling into the tent and zipping it closed.

His mouth was on Daryl's instantly; his face and neck still warm from the heat of the fire. Daryl knew that the closeness of their bodies in the tent at night had driven Rick out of his mind; that it was killing him to do nothing more than rut against one another with their jeans still on, but Daryl was scared to give himself up to Rick, to let his body feel the release that Daryl felt so guilty and horrifed about needing. About wanting.

The inside of the tent smelt faintly of sweat and smoke, and it was still warm from the hot sun beating through the trees and onto the canvas all day. They were both sweaty, and Rick's skin tasted salty. Daryl thought about having to put the gloves on Rick's hands at the last race, and about how he'd have done anything to make him feel better when Rick got anxious. How could that be a bad thing, to care so deeply about a friend? Why should the things they did be wrong, if they weren't doing harm to anyone? Rick was touching his skin so softly, when the only touch Daryl had known before meeting him came from angry fists.

Fuck it.

Daryl dipped his head, mouthing against Rick's chest as Rick straddled him. He trailed his mouth across Rick's nipples, his hands around Rick's narrow waist.

"Not enough room for me to sit up," Rick complained breathlessly.

"S'okay," Daryl mumbled, pulling Rick flat on top of him. It was too fucking warm to have Rick's steaming body on top of his, but the weight of another body on him had Daryl hard. He and Rick grappled as they kissed, Daryl putting a knee up and managing to roll them both over with a thud, so it was Rick flat on his back now. He put a thumb between Rick's eyes, smoothing upwards to massage away the frown line on his forehead.

" _Now_ you're okay," he whispered, and Rick groaned, edging upwards to meet Daryl's lips. Daryl felt his rigid cock press against him, and then it was Rick rolling him over onto his back, tongueing at Daryl's neck.

Daryl tipped his head back with a sigh, allowing Rick to lick and kiss the hollow of his neck. He ran a hand through Rick's hair, but then suddenly there was nothing against his hand as Rick wriggled down the length of the tent. There was a soft giggle as Rick unzipped the tent a few inches.

"The fuck you doing, Grimes?"

"Need to stick my feet out the end..."

Daryl was about to ask what the hell Rick was playing at, when Rick's hands were unbuttoning and unzipping him, pulling his jeans down and then his underwear. Daryl clenched his fists at his sides, determined not to push Rick away this time, or tell him he didn't want this. Oh, he wanted it.

Rick finished pulling the clothes from Daryl's legs, and they made a soft thump as he threw them onto the other side of the tent. Rick's own underwear soon joined them there, before he rested his elbows on Daryl's thighs, looking up at him with hope.

"Daryl, will you let me..."

Daryl licked beads of sweat from his own top lip, and nodded slowly. He sat up on his elbows, seeing how his cock was standing upright, Rick's head directly behind it. He held his breath as Rick wrapped a hand around it, gliding up and down and giving the head a soft squeeze before leaning down to place his mouth around it. Daryl almost leapt from off the ground, groaning _Oh fu...uck_ as Rick's warm tongue circled and licked. When he started sucking gently, Daryl forgot all about the guilt and the terrible things his family would say about men who enjoyed this. All he could focus on was Rick's wet mouth around his dick, how it moved down to his balls before going back to his erection, tongue flicking against the head and Rick making satisfied moans.

Daryl grabbed Rick's head, guiding it back and forth against his cock. Daryl wanted to buck up and down, thrust himself in and out of Rick's hot wet mouth, but he didn't want to make Rick gag. He felt Rick's teeth graze against him once or twice, but the sense of fear that that brought did nothing but thrill Daryl more. When Rick poked his tongue against Daryl's frenulum, Daryl knew he was going to lose it.

"R..Rick... " he warned, tugging at Rick's hair. Rick looked at Daryl, pupils blown wide, and continued to suck.

Daryl felt his orgasm building from the small of his back, to his ass, to his balls, before erupting inside Rick's mouth. He grunted as Rick sucked him through it, shooting come twice more before finally his climax subsided. He heard a gulp and the smack of lips as Rick swallowed.

Daryl lay there shaking, almost feeling as if he might cry. Rick moved back upwards, lying against him, a hand smoothing across his chest in a _there, there_ gesture.

"Daryl, are you okay?"

Daryl just nodded, too wasted to speak.

"I'd kiss you," Rick whispered. "But I..."

"Can kiss me," Daryl managed to reply huskily. "Don't matter if I can taste it."

Rick's body stuck to Daryl's with sweat as they clung to one another, softly kissing. Daryl reached between them, jerking Rick off quickly, only four strokes and Rick came undone. He could taste himself on Rick's mouth, but he didn't think twice about it. Didn't taste good, sure, but something about the sweat and the saliva and the come had Daryl's cock getting hard again already. Rick gave a soft laugh and squeezed him gently.

"Let's never go home, Daryl."

*

The camping trip had left Rick feeling rested and rejuvenated. All he thought about was his and Daryl naked bodies pressed close in the tent on that last night. The sun had been rising by the time they'd finally gone to sleep, after having both come 2 more times. Rick wasn't sure if they'd ever go far enough as _it_ but what they had done in that tent had been enough. Daryl's hands and his mouth and their bodies and cocks rubbing together as the fire died outside.

He was sitting in the garage before the first practice session of the new season, posing for a photo shoot with his new helmet. He was thrilled with his – black all over aside from a neon green target on the very top, and a silver Colt Python revolver emblazoned on each side. Daryl's had ended up looking pretty damn cool too, black as well, with the outline of a hissing black cat drawn in white, its back arched and its fangs showing. Rick ran with the number 1 on his, as was his right given he was the reigning Champion. But Daryl, with that dark sense of humour of his, had chosen the number 13.

After the shoot, he had to do a quick Q&A with a local sports journalist. Rick didn't like this aspect of the job. He wasn't particularly comfortable with talking about himself too much, not to people he didn't know or trust, anyway. The journalist was an overweight man in his late 50s; someone who'd probably been on the job back when Rick's dad had been racing.

Rick was still sitting at the back of the garage when the journalist appeared, 20 minutes late. He pointed to the new helmet with his pen.

"New lid? Very nice, Rick."

After that, it was the usual barrage of questions about Rick's preparation for the new season, whether he thought he could win the Championship again, and whether he thought he would move up to the main Superbike category the following year. Rick had rehearsed his answers to these kind of questions already, acting politely and professionally like his dad had advised him too.

The journalist chewed his pen lid and gave a wry smile.

"You're sure more pleasant to interview than your teammate. He know how to speak? 'Cause all I got out of him was grunting that might have been one word answers."

Rick stifled a laugh.

"It's not my place to speak about Daryl Dixon."

"I'll bet," the journalist laughed. The noise of it jarred Rick. "You wouldn't speak out about anything really, would you?"

"Excuse me?" Rick didn't like his tone.

"Oh you play the game with us reporters, Rick," the journalist said, all the while smiling falsely. "You're co-operative and you tell us what you think we want to hear."

"I'm not sure why you're acting like that's a ba..."

"What I want to know is – are you _too_ nice? Don't you think that your reputation is just too gentlemanly for you to be deadly enough on track?"

"I think you can be a good guy and still beat people. I certainly did that last season," Rick found himself snapping. How dare this fat fuck come into his garage and start talking shit at him?

The journalist grinned again, slimy and self-satisfied.

"Well now, it's not like you had much competition last season. In fact it's fair to say you should have had it all wrapped up long before the last race. Don't you think that with a teammate who's had a year to get used to the bike now, things might be more difficult? I mean, Dixon looked like he was going to show you up a few times towards the end of last year and it wouldn't look good if the son of Richard Grimes was beaten by an unknown and..."

"I have other press to do today," Rick held his hand up. "This interview is over."

Rick went to the back of the garage to take a piss. He stared at himself in the mirror, taking several deep breaths to calm himself down. His eyes looked manic with anger, and his mouth was set into a grim line. What a prick. What an absolute prick. Visions came into his mind of picking up a wrench from one of his mechanic's toolkits, of chasing after that asshole reporter, and bludgeoning him on the head with it. He'd lie there screaming, teeth knocked out and mouth full of blood while Rick kept hitting him and hitting him. The thought of doing something so extreme made Rick laugh out loud, and he felt his rage disappearing almost instantly.

"Don't let nonsense like that distract you," his dad told him that evening. He, Rick and Daryl were sitting outside the motorhome. "He's just trying to sell papers. Remember that."

Rick smashed it the following day in qualifying, taking pole position by 0.6 seconds. In the race, Daryl was close behind him the whole time, trying to get past at certain corners, even overtaking for the lead at one point before Rick sliced back past him again at the next bend. Every time Rick thought of that fat, greasy journalist's face, he pushed a little harder, posting fastest laps over and over, and somehow still staying on the bike.

Before the podium, as he got off his bike and removed his helmet, Daryl slapped him on the back so hard that Rick thought he might bruise.

"Best race I ever saw you do," Daryl enthused, face bright red and sweaty from the exertions of wrestling the bike around 30 laps.

They bumped fists, and around them a cheer went up from their team.

"Thought you had me, once or twice," Rick replied, out of breath.

Daryl raised his eyebrows and pointed at his bike.

"Next time, Grimes. Next time."

*

As Rick walked down the paddock after the race, he heard a girl's voice and then giggling. Outside the Governor Engineering motorhome, Shane was swigging from a bottle of water and flirting with one of the grid girls. She was tall and thin, with long dark hair and soft brown eyes. Shane was lounging against the railing, as confident and dazzlingly handsome as he always had been. He met Rick's gaze, giving a cursory nod. The girl caught Rick's eye, and smiled. Rick raised an eyebrow as he walked on past. _You're too stupid to see how girls look at you_ , Daryl had told him once. Rick noticed this one.

"Hey!"

Rick turned around to see Shane jogging towards him. The girl was walking in the opposite direction, long legs underneath a tight black leather miniskirt.

"Hi there, Shane." Rick nodded towards the girl. "Not going after your girl?"

Shane grinned.

"She ain't my girl. Well, she was last night, I suppose. Tonight I'll have a different girl."

"Jesus, Shane, you ever stop?"

"Nope."

There was an awkward silence for a moment. This was the longest conversation Rick had had with Shane since he'd joined Team Greene. Rick was pleased to see Shane at a Supersport team, but he knew that they'd probably never be friends again.

"Just wanted to congratulate you, Rick. Great race. Dixon gave you a run for your money."

"He did."

"Can't believe that asshole is racing for Hershel Greene."

"Shane, stop..."

Shane waved his hands up.

"Okay, okay. You and the redneck still buddies, then?"

Rick wrinkled his nose.

"Well yeah... why wouldn't we be?"

Shane clicked his tongue and cocked his head to the side. There was a hint of malice playing around his plump lips.

"Gonna be a long season, Rick. When teammates are both trying to win a Championship, things ain't always gonna stay _cordial_."

"Think we can be rivals without being at war, Shane. Maybe that's your attitude but it's not mine – and it's not Daryl's, either."

Shane licked his lips.

"We'll see."

*

Daryl's mechanics had been listening to Nirvana in his garage all weekend, after Kurt's suicide. Heavy bands like that always reminded Daryl of Merle, and it gave him the extra motivation to win. He was pissed about it, it had been cool seeing some small-town punk rock kid who'd never been given a chance becoming so popular. Rick liked to joke that Daryl dressed like him when they were off their bikes – ripped jeans, scuffed Converse, and plaid. Wasn't anything to do with trends, was just the way Daryl had always dressed. His clothes were just falling apart a bit less than they used to, was all.

And he'd kept his hair short. Y'know, he could've grown it back longer if he'd wanted to, 'cause Hershel pretty much gave him a free rein now that he was winning, but well... Rick liked it that way. Liked tugging at the back of it as he pressed his mouth against Daryl's neck. Liked burying his nose in it and smelling Daryl's scent, even if that scent was the cigarettes that he wasn't meant to be smoking. Sometimes after dinner, Rick and him would go out into the fields beyond the ranch, clad in shorts and trainers. Rick would go jogging, and Daryl would lie in wait, smoking happily in solitude. Rick would be drenched in sweat afterwards, and would give Daryl's t-shirt a customary squirt of water under the arms and on the back so it looked like he'd been exercising too. Daryl didn't see the point in all the running. He was winning without it, wasn't he?

Folks were talking now, in the paddock and in the press – talking about how he was Rick's main competitor for the Championship this season; how no-one thought that Rick could be beaten until now. Rick had won the opening race of the season, but Daryl had taken the next two, quite easily as it had turned out – it had rained at both, and he was always the best in those kind of conditions. Rick kept bitching about how the bike wasn't as good this year, that it was almost unrideable at times, but Daryl loved the new bike; the way it was higher at the rear so he could get a better angle and grip going around the corners. It didn't suit Rick's riding style as much, and Daryl could tell he was getting frustrated. He knew that once Rick finally cracked it, he'd be right ahead of Daryl again, so Daryl was just going to keep winning for as long as he possibly could. He'd always said he just liked taking race wins, but the thought of being a Champion... of being good – no, not good – _great_ at something, when he'd only ever been told that he was a piece of shit, was something that was crossing his mind more and more.

Rick won another two races, then Daryl won two, then they won one each. It was exhausting, like a heavyweight boxing match – throwing punches at each other every other weekend. Nobody else had won a race this season apart from Team Greene. Hershel watched every corner of every lap with interest, telling both he and Rick after every race how they could have improved. Things like _Daryl, you need to qualify better and stop chewing through your tyres_ and _Rick, you have to stay concentrated if someone is following you close_. The best two riders in Supersport, and Hershel still found ways he could make them up their game even further.

On a drizzly, overcast day at a track outside Seattle, Daryl's normal wet weather brilliance came into play, until his bike fucked up on the last lap, losing engine power and allowing several other riders to overtake him easily. Rick was one of them, coming second behind fucking Shane of all people. Daryl limped home in 13th place, and wasn't there some fucking irony in that, with the number plastered all over his helmet, bike and leathers.

It left Daryl only 8 points ahead at the halfway point of the season. He wasn't interested in numbers, or making mental calculations about what results he'd need to get for the remaining races – but shit, he knew 8 points was sweet fuck all. Rick could make up a difference like that in one damn race.

On the weekends when Rick's dad didn't travel with them, Rick would always sneak to Daryl's hotel room after dinner with the team, on the pretence of discussing race tactics. Somehow he never made it back to his own room until the sun came up again, and Daryl would sleep with no covers on, thanks to Rick hogging all his sheets and entangling his hairy legs in Daryl's. Rick was a cuddler, he loved to smooth his hand across Daryl's chest or trail kisses against his skin while Daryl was sleeping. Daryl more often than not would swat Rick's hand away as if he was an irritating fly. He liked to sleep alone, and he liked a cold hard bed with no fucking pillows or stupid fucking scatter cushions or Rick Grimes on top of him.

Was nice though sometimes, to wake up and see dark curls when Daryl opened his eyes. Mostly Rick woke up before he did, though. Rick was a restless sleeper, whereas Daryl slept like the dead – not to mention buck naked, leading to many mornings when he'd wake up to find Rick idly fondling his dick.

They were in bed on a race morning in – shit, wherever they were - 'Frisco, this time; Daryl lying back and letting Rick lay his head on his chest. Daryl ran his fingers through the hairs on Rick's sternum, looking down at the pale hairs on his own that were sparse in comparison.

"One of us is going to win this thing," Rick murmured.

"Today?"

"This year."

"Yeah, I know," Daryl shrugged. "I'm jus' as happy for it to be you as me."

Daryl meant that when the words escaped from his lips. But was he? He hadn't seen his daddy for nearly three years, and good riddance, but it did cross his mind that he might be watching. If Daryl lost, his daddy would shout drunken abuse at the television about what a waste of space he was, a fuck-up, just like every other Dixon. Would feel really fucking good to prove that alcoholic asshole wrong.

Rick turned his head to place a kiss on Daryl's bicep.

"Dad said the press will really kick things up a notch now, Daryl. Try to portray us as big rivals and stuff. Tell me you've said shit about me to journalists, or vice versa."

Daryl made a _pfft_ noise, running a hand across Rick's flat belly, and then downwards.

"Come on, you and I both know not to fuckin' pay any mind to that bullshit."

"I know, but..."

Daryl traced circles with a fingertip against the base of Rick's cock. He felt Rick quiver in his arms, so he did it harder.

"But what? Your daddy not give you advice on how to deal with it?"

Rick shook his head, his mouth opening slightly in a small gasp as Daryl licked a thumb and put it onto the head of his dick.

"Thing is, my daddy was always so far ahead when he was racing that he never had a main rival."

Daryl kept circling with his thumb, enjoying seeing how little he could touch Rick and still make him come.

"That what I am? Your main rival?"

Daryl squeezed the tip of the cock between his fingers, feeling the wetness. Rick didn't answer, just closed his eyes and let Daryl take him in his hand, pumping up and down until Rick came with a small cry.

*

After Rick won the race, Daryl told him only half-jokily that he wouldn't be getting a pre-race hand job anymore.

"Come on," Rick whined, pinching Daryl's arm. "It obviously relaxes me. I need you for my performance."

"Use your own damn hand to help your performance," Daryl growled, downing most of a tin of Coke in one go. A post-race beer wouldn't go amiss, sometimes, but the team would lose their shit seeing as he was still only 18.

Rick grabbed his arm, dragging him into the shadowy spot behind the large team lorries.

"There's nobody around," Rick whispered. "Everyone's packing up, or partying."

Daryl looked around anxiously.

"You lost your mind, Grimes? Busy paddock like this and you want to..."

Rick silenced him by pressing his mouth against Daryl's and backing him up against the rear of the motorhome.

"You wouldn't be doin' this if _I_ had won today," he grumbled through the kiss.

"Yeah. Yeah I would," Rick laughed softly.

Rick's mouth was warm and tasted of champagne. Even in the dim evening light, his lips looked plump and red. Daryl leaned forward, taking Rick's bottom lip in between his one last time, before he ducked out from under Rick's arm, and slunk away.

Making his way down the length of the long lorry, he wiped his mouth with his hand and looked around as he heard the low rumble of a man's voice from close by.

" _Yeah, honey. Yeah, just like that sweetheart._ "

There was heavy breathing and the smack of lips against flesh, and Daryl began walking faster.

" _Yeah yeah yeah, suck my cock, go on..._ "

That was Shane fucking Walsh. Daryl might have known he'd be the sort to get a little action behind the motorhomes. He'd seen him earlier with some skinny girl. But then, he was one to talk – although that had been Rick's idea, not his. And they hadn't done nothing, not really. It had been a quick kiss in the shadows; too quiet for anyone to hear, and too dark for anyone to see.

*

The season had gone far too fast for Rick's liking. His late season form hadn't been good, and he'd made a series of fuck ups that had Hershel scratching his head and asking him what the hell was going on. Rick knew he was pushing the bike too hard, trying desperately to win every race at any cost, even if it meant he'd ended up in the gravel too many times. During a wet race, his visor had misted up, and he'd freaked out, spinning off a few laps from the end. In another, he'd taken out another rider during a foolish overtaking attempt that was never going to work. He'd almost earned a punch from the other guy after that one, and Rick knew he would have deserved it.

"You okay, Grimes?" was all he ever heard from Daryl now. He asked after every qualifying session, after every race, after every time Daryl wanted to do _something_ and Rick, uncharacteristically, didn't.

It was okay for Daryl, Rick thought. He'd never had anything to lose when he was racing – not like he did, when everyone was watching him to see if he lived up to the surname. There were two races left, and Daryl had had such a great run of results that he could win the Championship on the penultimate one; which was more than Rick had done the previous season.

The track where the last-but-one race was to be held was a 'Dixon' track - the press, the fans, everybody said so. Tight and twisty, with sharp turns and the chance of inclement weather. On qualifying day, everyone knew it was due to piss down with rain sooner rather than later, so getting onto the track as soon as possible to put a lap down was vitally important. Daryl was one of the first out, laying down rubber and getting in a row of quick times before the weather changed. Rick followed Daryl a few minutes later, trailing behind his teammate's bike and trying to copy the lines he was taking, but Daryl risked more when he was riding, leaning the bike over at more than a 45 degree angle at times; knee scraping against the asphalt. That wasn't Rick's style, and after a few corners of attempting to mirror Daryl's lap, he gave up.

Qualifying fifth when your teammate took pole position didn't look good. Certainly not to a team owner like Hershel, who was always seeing if he could promote his Supersport riders into his Superbike team. Rick felt completely dejected, wishing his dad had come this weekend. He wanted nothing more than to go to the back of the garage and be alone. Better still, just to go home right away.

He decided to meet Daryl outside of the press conference, where Daryl would be giving interviews after qualifying. Rick had changed out of his helmet and leathers pretty quickly, and gotten into jeans and a white t-shirt, sticking a pair of sunglasses on at the last minute so nobody would look him in the eye. As the season came to a close, the paddock got busier with teams and sponsors, trying to sort contracts out for the following year. Usually the various chats going on all melded into one, but today, Rick heard one conversation all too clearly.

_"He's not the rider his daddy was, he just don't have that ruthless streak to get into Superbikes and win. Kid is too darn nice. Hershel Greene needs someone ruthless. I mean, look at Dixon, who'd have thought that..."_

Rick kept walking, head down. He didn't hear the rest of the conversation, but he'd heard enough. And maybe it was right, what they had said. Daryl could win the Championship tomorrow. Rick had respect for his rivals, but maybe he was just too darn nice.

Daryl emerged from the press conference and immediately told Rick that he looked like shit. It was meant in a jokey way, but when Rick didn't reply, Daryl's brow furrowed.

"Hey? Okay, Grimes?"

Rick shook his head.

Daryl looked around anxiously, unzipping his leathers and pulling them down around his waist. Normally the sight of his bare chest underneath would have had Rick wanting to drag him into the motorhome to kiss him, but Rick stood stock still.

"Daryl... I... will you get me back to the hotel?"

Daryl nodded.

"Two minutes, okay? I need to go over the bike set up for tomorrow with the guys. But I won't be long. Stay there, Rick."

Two minutes turned into twenty. Rick understood that it was important for Daryl to stay behind and make sure everything was perfect for his race the next day, but suddenly Rick felt terribly alone; a way he hadn't felt since Daryl had first come into his life. He remembered feeling like this just after his Mom died – the aching emptiness, the head cloudy with jumbled thoughts and worries, the rising sense of dread in his gut. And Daryl still hadn't come back, he'd forgotten Rick was waiting on him, or he didn't care, or or or...

He heard a moped zipping its way through the paddock. It was Shane. Rick waved at him to stop.

"You're staying at the same hotel, right?"

"Yup," Shane replied. "Want a ride there?"

Rick climbed onto the back, holding onto Shane's waist. He turned around as they sped away, seeing Daryl walk out of the garage and stare at them as they disappeared into the distance.

*

"Couldn't have waited?" Daryl growled the next morning at breakfast. "You were in such a hurry that a lift with that fuckin' asshole Shane was a better option than waitin' for me?"

Rick pulled the foil from the top of his yoghurt, then pushed it to the side. He didn't much feel like eating. Daryl was the one who had more right to be nervous today, given that he could win the Championship, but he shovelled eggs into his mouth and gulped down almost a whole carton of orange juice, burping after he did so, to the consternation of their fellow diners.

"I didn't feel well," Rick retorted.

"I was gone less than half a fuckin' hour."

Rick stuck a spoon into the yoghurt and stirred it. The chunks of strawberries made him feel vaguely ill. Daryl saw his expression, and grabbed the pot from him, finishing the yoghurt in seconds.

"Are you pissed that I left, or pissed that I left with _Shane_?"

Daryl burped again.

"It's a free country." He stood up, letting his chair scrape noisily along the floor as he did so. "See ya after the race."

" _Daryl_ ," Rick pleaded, following him up the stairs to the second floor where their rooms were. He barged into Daryl's room and pushed him against the wall, the nightstand rattling as he did so. Rick grabbed the neckline of Daryl's t-shirt and stared him straight in the eye, moving his head to keep forcing Daryl to look at him.

"I was freaking out yesterday, okay? It happens. I fucked up qualifying and I felt like shit, and then you were gone for ages and... "

Daryl held his gaze, sucking in his cheeks as if he was thinking hard. He made a _hmmph_ noise.

"Y'alright?"

"I'm _fine_ ," Rick said, exasperated.

Daryl pushed him gently, then prodded a finger hard into his breastbone.

"Fuckin' see ya with that prick Walsh again an' I swear..."

"Daryl Dixon? Jealous?" Rick teased.

Daryl's face darkened.

"He ain't good for ya, is all."

Rick pushed Daryl back against the wall again, pressing a deep kiss onto his lips. Daryl's mouth opened, moist and hungry, sliding his tongue against Rick's immediately.

"You _are_ ," Rick mumbled through the kiss. He pulled away, kissing Daryl's forehead gently.

"Wish we could keep doing this, but we have a race and you have a Championship to win."

*

There was a track invasion after Daryl won the race. Throngs of fans clad in black and green spilled onto the racetrack to celebrate the 1994 US Supersport Champion. Rick came third; a massive relief to him after how he'd felt the day before. Daryl stood on the podium, looking shellshocked and more than a little emotional. People below sang and chanted his name, and when Daryl held his trophy aloft, his face reddened and his bottom lip quivered. Rick couldn't lie to himself, it fucking _hurt_ that it wasn't him this year, that he'd failed to retain his Championship, but he couldn't feel anything but pride and joy for his best friend.

Back at the hotel, the receptionist beckoned Daryl over, telling him he had a call. It was Rick's dad, congratulating him. Rick waited for them to finish speaking, seeing how Daryl just nodded and bit his lip throughout, clearly trying to keep his emotions in check. After he hung up, Rick asked what Richard had said to him.

"Jus' said he was proud of me," Daryl answered shyly. "Oh, and he said you rode a good race too."

Rick smiled weakly.

"Great... I guess I'll give him a call later."

Daryl leaned his head back and yawned.

"Fuckin' beat. Gonna take a piss and a shower."

Rick grabbed Daryl's arm to stop him disappearing so rapidly.

"You're coming back down for dinner, right? Hershel and the rest of the guys will be wanting to see you and celebrate."

Daryl shrugged and bit his thumbnail.

"I dunno..."

Rick laughed.

"Daryl, you can't just go to your room for the rest of the night, you've just won a Championship!"

"Hired to win, not to sit an' be stared at in some fancy hotel."

Rick said no more, knowing that Daryl was going to be incredibly uncomfortable with all the attention. He would hate to be sitting amongst a lot of people, being admired and congratulated. Rick would have enjoyed it – not necessarily being praised, but celebrating with the guys who worked so hard on his bike felt really special, and he didn't want Daryl to miss out on that feeling.

"You can come down for dinner for an hour, how about that?" Rick pressed. "I will be there – just come to my room once you're done getting ready."

Daryl pursed his lips and shrugged. That was as close to a _yes_ as he ever gave.

Rick retreated to his own room, throwing his rucksack onto the bed and stripping off immediately. He threw his team t-shirt onto the floor, standing staring at the green leaf logo on the breast pocket. He stared and stared, thinking about how in comparison to last year, his season had been a disappointment. He'd won some races, sure, but he had been expected to dominate. He was Richard Grimes Junior and nobody should be beating him. He wasn't ruthless enough, the voice he'd heard had said. Maybe he wasn't good enough, quick enough, talented enough. Maybe Hershel and the rest of the team preferred Daryl now – he'd be uncommunicative in press conferences and interviews, or plain rude, and still the journalists and fans loved his devil may care attitude. Rick tried and tried to be the consumate professional but maybe nobody wanted that, and what did it matter if he wasn't good enough anyway, and...

Rick took a step back, realising that his heart was racing and his head felt light. The room was swimming in front of him, and he staggered to the bathroom and switched on the shower, making sure it was ice cold – he was sweating heavily, prickling under his arms and in the small of his back. If only he could talk to his dad, he would make him feel better, but his dad had called Daryl to speak to him. _Daryl_. Not Rick. Not his son.

The shampoo slipped out of Rick's trembling hands and he leant his head against the cold white tiles, feeling dizzy and disoriented. The thought of going downstairs and facing the team members he had let down left him feeling terrified and nauseous. His knees began to shake and suddenly Rick felt like he might collapse. He switched the water off and managed to get back into the bedroom, sliding down against the side of the bed, naked and soaking wet. He'd never felt so scared, so worthless, so alone. He pulled his knees up and put his head between them, trying to take deep breaths. _Daryl hurry up, please hurry up, please... Daryl... please..._ he mumbled, rocking gently.

There was a soft tap at the door. Rick tried to croak Daryl's name, but no sound came out. The knock became harder, and then Daryl's voice came, gruff and panicky.

"Grimes, ya in there?"

Rick crawled on his hands and knees, pulling himself upward by gripping onto the door handle. He opened the door a couple of centimetres, seeing Daryl's concerned face.

"The fuck you at in there?" Daryl pushed the door open and slid inside.

Rick slumped back down onto the floor and Daryl dropped to his knees to join him.

" _Rick?_ "

"I'm going to lose everything," he gasped through racking sobs. "My ride with the team, everyone that supports me... _you_."

"You ain't losing me, asshole."

Daryl put his arms around Rick, and Rick buried his head in his wide chest. Daryl shushed him, placed soft kisses on his forehead as if he was a child needing to be comforted. Rick hadn't ever thought that Daryl could be so caring, or that he'd ever be naked in his arms under these kind of situations.

"You're okay, Grimes," Daryl soothed. "I _got ya, I got ya_."

Rick felt his breathing began to ease, and the dizziness was beginning to pass. He pulled away from Daryl's touch slightly.

"You're missing your big celebration downstairs."

Daryl clicked his tongue.

"So fuckin' what."

Daryl reached behind Rick's head and pulled the duvet cover down.

"C'mon, let's get you up."

Rick allowed Daryl to put his hand around his shoulders as he slid into bed. He wriggled backwards to the other side of the mattress, and Daryl took the hint, crawling in beside him fully clothed.

"Gonna tell me what the fuck all that was about?" Daryl whispered, reaching over to grip Rick's hand.

They lay against the pillows, staring at one another with soft eyes.

Rick squeezed Daryl's fingers, feeling exhausted but calmer than he had ten minutes earlier.

"First time something like that happened was after my mom died. I'd found one of her socks in the laundry and freaked out. Dad had been gone all day, he found me under the kitchen table, unable to move or speak. He bought me my first dirt bike the next day."

Daryl moved closer to Rick so their chests were flush. Their noses were touching now and Rick could make out every feature on Daryl's face – from the small beauty spot above his mole, to the natural puffiness under his right eye. He gave Daryl a chaste kiss.

"You know dad, typical Southern guy – got me out on the bike, helping him in the garage... said working hard worked just as well as talking to someone who got paid too much for doing very little."

"Did it?" Daryl asked, returning the kiss. "Y'always seemed jus' fine to me."

"Guess it did, most of the time," Rick answered, throwing a leg over Daryl's and moving closer so his head was resting on Daryl's shoulder. "I just feel... scared sometimes. I dunno, been a long, long season."

"Like the day ya fell on the podium? An' all the times you seemed weird?"

"...Yup."

Daryl gave a weary sigh. "Ya never talk to me about stuff like that, Rick."

"I never talk to _anyone_ about it."

_You don't talk about your childhood either_ , Rick wanted to point out, but he didn't. Daryl kissed him deeper, flicking his tongue gently against Rick's.

"You can talk to me anytime," he breathed through the kiss. "Can't guarantee I'd be any help, but..."

"Likewise," Rick whispered, and Daryl shut his eyes. Rick didn't think he'd ever get Daryl to open up about how his dad had treated him growing up.

Daryl ran a finger down the side of Rick's face.

"Not somethin' that ever needs talked about now it's over." He rolled onto his back, putting his hand behind his head and staring up at the ceiling. He laughed drily. "Man, this is how I'm spendin' my first night as Champion?"

"Kinda fucked up, huh?"

Daryl grinned.

"Ah, we're fuck ups, you an' me. Wouldn't have it any other way."

*

The two week break before the final race of the season did Rick a world of good. Hershel had signed he and Daryl for the following year again, and Rick wanted to go out on a high.

"You have nothing to lose," his dad had told him over breakfast on race morning. "You can afford to be a little looser and a little more daring. The championship is done and no-one's close enough to take away your second place. Just go for it, son."

"That what you're telling Daryl, too?" Rick replied slyly.

Richard shook his head and kept shovelling bacon into his mouth. The smell was intoxicating – Rick was looking forward to eating some junk that evening.

"Certainly not. You need a win today, not him."

Rick wasn't sure if that was meant in a nice way or not, but his dad was right. Rick craved the victory today like he'd never done before. He'd qualified second, after Daryl, but he'd followed him during the practice sessions, and seen how Daryl took a wider line around the outside of the final corner than Rick did. The corner was a left-hander, wide and sweeping. Daryl rode differently from the other riders, he took his own lines instead of the ones that were regarded as the best way. Rick watched as lap after lap, Daryl let his bike drift a little further to the right hand side of the track than anyone else did. He was able to make up the time in other parts of the lap, but in that one corner, he was slower. He was _vulnerable_.

It hadn't rained for weeks, and the track was bone-dry and heavily rubbered down, just the conditions that Rick loved. On days like today, when conditions weren't changeable, he knew that his analytical style would be a massive benefit. He could put the hammer down and match Daryl's speed, all the while staying behind him until the last few laps when Rick planned to make his move.

Sure enough, 28 laps went by; Daryl letting his bike run across the track on the last turn more than Rick did. On lap 29, Daryl went especially wide, his tyres starting to deteriorate badly. Rick made a mental note of how much room there was on the inside; if it was a bike width he could sneak through the gap on the left – _just_.

On the last lap, Daryl did it again. Rick twisted the throttle and dived for the inside. His bike slid around the inside of the bend just as Daryl's bike began to move back towards the left hand side. Rick instinctively closed his eyes, feeling like he could almost hear the gasps of the crowd as the fairings of he and Daryl's matching bikes banged into one another, and their front tyres almost touched. Rick felt Daryl's boot scrape against his, but he kept his bike steady, and when he opened his eyes again, he was around the corner and in first place. He'd hit Daryl's bike so hard that Daryl had dropped a few seconds behind. Rick's hands were shaking and he could hear the blood rushing through his ears, but he screamed inside his helmet as he crossed the line to win.

Usually when they rode their bikes into parc ferme, he and Daryl would hug, or at least fist-bump one another. Today, Daryl pulled his helmet off, his hair plastered to his face with sweat. Rick held a hand out for him to shake, but Daryl pretended not to see him, instead sucking from a water bottle that a mechanic handed him. Rick felt crestfallen; that had been the best win of his entire career and he couldn't believe that Daryl was taking the defeat so badly. Daryl had won the World Championship for fuck's sake, what did it matter if Rick had beaten him on the last bend of the last lap?

After the podium, Daryl left his trophy sitting on the second place step and stalked off with an enraged expression on his face. Rick followed him, tapping him on the shoulder and saying his name, but Daryl shrugged him away. They walked quickly down the length of the paddock until they got to the team's hospitality tent and motorhomes. Rick thought Daryl might go into the tent to get another drink, but instead he walked to the back of the motorhome.

"Daryl, what the fuck? _Really_?" Rick eventually snapped.

Daryl whipped around, jaw set in a hard line and eyes ablaze. Rick was shocked by the steel in Daryl's eyes as he pressed his palm flat against Rick's chest, pushing him against the side of the motorhome.

"Do that again, Grimes, and I'll put ya into the wall," he hissed, jabbing his finger into the space between their faces. "Don't care if I've already won the Championship – I wanted that race."

He walked away, dark blond hair damp and mussed-up; tight leathers hanging around his waist; the plain white vest that he wore underneath stuck to his chest with sweat. He'd never looked better.

Rick called his name once, twice. Daryl just kept walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and - I'M SORRY.
> 
> Chapter 8 looks like it's going to be long too (these boys get up to far too much), so won't be posted for another 2 weeks-ish.
> 
> All comments welcome... even if it's to tell me what a horrible person I am.


	8. 8.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"We have to tell ourselves that we can be this but still be competitive with each other," Rick whispered through kisses. Daryl let his head fall backwards so that Rick's curls brushed against his face lightly. He believed Rick, and he thought the same – yet he could still taste the sourness of defeat in his mouth, the rage at being overtaken just when he thought he had the win._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter that I really didn't think I was going to get finished so soon!  
> I haven't even begun writing the next one yet, but I will try my best to get it posted ASAP, hopefully within 2 weeks again. 
> 
> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/

"I'm a dick," Daryl spat, punching and kicking the fence. At his feet, Jack growled.

"You're n..."

"Am," Daryl shook his head. He and Rick were in their favourite spot on the ranch, up in the top meadow with the wildflowers. It was the morning after the last race, and he felt guilty and ashamed of how he'd treated Rick after his victory. He'd acted like all those other pricks they raced against, winning at all costs, no sense of loyalty.

Rick sat cross-legged, pulling at blades of grass.

"It was a hard move," he admitted. "Scraped both our bikes all down the sides, surprised Hershel didn't beat my ass after for risking taking the both of us out."

"Was a _great_ move," Daryl reassured him. Inside, he knew Rick had needed that win. Rick was fragile, sometimes; Daryl had come to realise that over the past two seasons.

"Only did it 'cause I knew I could trust you, Daryl," Rick told him. His eyes looked tired and his face was drawn. The fullness in his cheeks had disappeared over the past few months, and now his facial features were strong and sharp.

Daryl set Jack on his lap. Something about the comfort of the dog against him made him more confident about spilling his guts.

"Don't like myself like that, Rick; when I feel myself sayin' the kinda shit my daddy woulda. Actin' like a dick 'cause I lost a race. Never felt like that, since I started racin'. Normally love seein' ya win, even if you've beat me good. I shouldn't have... I shouldn't..."

He felt his chest tightening, and then he had his hands over his eyes. Fuckin' stupid Dixon in him. _The apple don't fall far from the tree_ , he thought.

"I don't like myself when I'm like that," Daryl sobbed again. Almost instantly, Rick's arms were around his waist, kisses being planted on the back of his neck. Daryl felt like shrugging him away, like telling him that this couldn't be solved by a few kisses, but Rick's mouth on his skin always had him seeing stars.

"It's okay, Daryl," Rick mumbled as his mouth moved to Daryl's jaw.

"I won't..." Daryl began. "I won't ever treat you that way again."

Rick sat behind him, his chin resting on Daryl's shoulder and his legs parallel with Daryl's on the ground.

"We have to tell ourselves that we can be _this_ but still be competitive with each other," Rick whispered through kisses. Daryl let his head fall backwards so that Rick's curls brushed against his face lightly. He believed Rick, and he thought the same – yet he could still taste the sourness of defeat in his mouth, the rage at being overtaken just when he thought he had the win. But Rick and his dad had done so much for him. He wasn't going to be an entitled brat like some of the riders.

"Winning?" he murmured, leaning back against Rick's chest. "Winning don't mean shit compared to this, Grimes."

"Yeah," Rick sighed. "This is pretty damn nice. Almost makes me not want to have to go racing ever again."

"Oh yeah?" Daryl laughed gently.

"I said _almost_ ," Rick replied.

*

"What are you doing up so early?"

Rick turned around to see his dad watching him wheel his dirt bike from out of the garage.

"It's not that early, dad."

Richard looked at his watch.

"It's 7am! That's early for you. Sure as hell we won't see Daryl for at least another 3 hours."

That's the point, Rick thought. He wanted to get out to the dirt track early – and alone. It was a good way to train; to test his reflexes and hone his skills before the new season started. His dad had been around the block; he'd seen and done it all, and he nodded with understanding.

"Good for you, Rick. There's no better prep than throwing a bike around for a few hours. Not asking Daryl, huh?"

"Nope," Rick admitted, then paused. "Don't tell him, okay?"

"Never saw you," Richard replied, with a wink.

Rick beamed.

"He's going to be tough to beat this year," his dad continued. "You should do this every morning."

Rick's smile faded instantly.

Two hours later, Rick was still thrashing his dirt bike around the hills and sharp corners of the dirt track. His clothes were splattered with mud and the muscles in his upper body ached. He was starving, and despite the fact he was here to try and prepare for beating Daryl, he missed him. He decided to do one more lap, and go home.

Daryl was listening to some typically maudlin music when Rick ascended the stairs to his room with a breakfast tray full of coffee, pancakes and bacon. Something about a green plastic watering can and rubber plants; who the hell knew what band Daryl was into these days.

Daryl was lying on his bed with his hand behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. He didn't move when Rick set the tray onto the nightstand and sat down onto the bed.

"What are you thinking about?"

"My daddy," Daryl replied, his voice barely audible.

Rick smoothed his hand across the blue blanket.

"Yeah? You think about him a lot."

"Nuh-uh," Daryl said huskily. "Jus' wondering if he knows. About the racin'. About me livin' here."

"About us?" Rick raised an eyebrow.

Daryl tutted.

"Ya kiddin'? I know damn well what he'd think about us. What _most_ folks we know would think about us."

Rick winced, knowing Daryl was right.

"I don't think about the people we know," he implored. "I just think about you and me. I think about... the way your skin feels, the way you smell..."

Daryl made a soft _mmm_ noise, rubbing the stubble on his chin lazily. The scratchy sound of it always made Rick crazy with lust. He leant across to kiss the hollow of Daryl's throat.

"Dad's not here," Rick whispered, and Daryl moaned contentedly.

"Don't ya want me to eat that breakfast ya brought me?"

Rick shrugged.

"It'll still taste good cold, Daryl."

"Not if you made it, Grimes."

Rick continued kissing Daryl's neck, easing himself onto the bed properly and tugging at Daryl's vest. Daryl pushed him away so he could pull it off, before turning his attentions to Rick's t-shirt, and discarding that as well. Rick unzipped Daryl's jeans, moving down on the bed to press his mouth against Daryl's lower stomach. Daryl kicked the trousers off, and Rick's breath caught in his throat at the sight of him fully naked.

"You're fucking gorgeous," he rasped, and Daryl squeezed his eyes shut. Rick knew he'd never get used to compliments, but Rick couldn't help but give them. From Daryl's biceps, to his lithe arms and legs, and ridiculously wide, strong shoulders, he was stunning.

"Take the rest of yer clothes off and I might say the same, Grimes."

Rick didn't need to be asked twice, and soon they were lying naked, face to face. Rick reached around to smooth a hand down Daryl's back, feeling the places where Daryl's skin had thickened from scars. He loved the way they gasped into each other's mouths as they kissed; as if they were so desperate for one another that they lost their ability to breathe.

Rick felt Daryl's hardness pressing against the top of his thigh, and moved closer, putting his hand between them and jerking them slowly off together. God damn, Daryl Dixon was going to be the death of him. He was going out of his mind wanting to go further than this. Daryl's fingers were threaded in his short curls, pulling at them roughly. It just made Rick even crazier; and there was also that vague sense that Daryl was stronger than him; that if he were so inclined, he could put Rick flat on his back.

Rick let the hand on Daryl's back drift further downwards, waiting for Daryl's body to freeze up, or to be pushed away by him. But Daryl's body was warm and compliant, his cock rigid and damp in Rick's other hand. Rick let his fingers linger at the small of Daryl's back for a moment, before slipping them down between the cleft of his ass. Daryl's arm darted backwards, gripping onto Rick's wrist to stop him from going any further. Rick stared at him, holding his breath as he waited. Daryl stared back, his narrow eyes as intense as Rick had ever seen them. He waited for a _no_ that never came. Daryl moved Rick's hand up towards his mouth, and Rick began to pant as Daryl took his index and middle fingers between his lips, sucking them hard and covering them in spit.

"Slow, Grimes. Okay?" Daryl murmured, his face scarlet. "And we're not going to... before ya get any ideas."

Rick nodded, barely believing what was happening. He took his wet fingers and slid them back downwards. Daryl shifted his leg, allowing Rick to trace circular patterns on his hole before tentatively beginning to press his middle finger inside. Daryl gave a harsh gasp, but he moved his thigh further forward again in acceptance of what Rick was doing.

Daryl dipped his head, pressing his face into Rick's neck as Rick crooked his finger and gently massaged Daryl's tender flesh. He felt Daryl's teeth bite down softly on his skin, and his cock twitched. Daryl gave a light grunt as he slowly pushed his body back towards Rick's finger.

"That feel good?" Rick asked huskily.

"Mmm," Daryl responded, before putting a palm on Rick's chest and motioning for him to stop. "Enough, though."

Rick was half-glad, his wrist was starting to ache and he really needed to come. He pushed Daryl onto his back, and Daryl wrapped his legs around Rick's waist. Rick thought he was going to explode, looking down to see the pinkish, stretched entrance between Daryl's legs, thinking about how tight it had been around his finger let alone his dick. He bucked forward, sliding his cock against Daryl's and groaning loudly.

Daryl untangled himself from Rick's body, and Rick gave a short cry as Daryl rolled over onto his front. Rick bent down, licking a stripe from Daryl's divine shoulder muscles down to the curve of his ass. He paused, then slid his tongue down lower. Daryl's body jolted, and he gulped _oh fuck_ , but he let Rick continue to lick where his fingers had been only moments before. Rick's head felt light, Daryl's skin feeling searingly hot against his. He gave Daryl's ass a squeeze, enjoying the sight of its perfect curves. He grabbed his cock, sliding it up and down the cleft, pre-come helping his dick continue its slippery path. Beneath him, Daryl writhed around on the bed.

"G... gonna... " Rick sputtered, and came over Daryl's lower back and ass. He could barely breathe at the intensity of his orgasm, wondering how on earth he would ever last more than a second if Daryl ever did let him inside him properly.

"Selfish asshole," Daryl growled, wriggling underneath Rick to roll back onto his back, his dick sticking up towards his stomach, dark purple and aching. Rick hoped he wasn't still too breathless to blow him, lowering his mouth onto Daryl's cock and sucking him in as far as he could. Daryl bucked upwards, trying to fuck Rick's mouth. All Rick could smell was sweat and sex, and he moaned around the large hard-on his lips were wrapped around as Daryl cried his name and flooded his mouth with come.

*

One Championship each, Daryl thought to himself. And two race wins each so far in the new season. He wondered if Rick's constant attempts to try to... do _that_ with him were a way to divert Daryl's concentration away from racing. It wasn't working, but Daryl couldn't pretend not to be enjoying Rick's endeavours.

He was trying to find his seat on the plane for their flight to Detroit for the next race. Rick and he hadn't managed to get seats together, not that he cared. Both of them usually fell asleep anyway, and when he was awake, he much preferred to be left alone with whatever book he was reading at that moment.

"This row 13?" he grunted to a woman who was sitting in the window seat. She looked up from her newspaper and nodded.

"Yes. Would you like the window?"

"Nope," Daryl grunted, hoping she wasn't going to make chat for the next 2 hours.

He threw his small rucksack into the overhead locker, and slunk down into his seat. He could sense the woman's eyes flitting to his face a few times, and he clicked his tongue in disapproval, pretending to be interested in the safety laminate.

"So did you choose this row number on purpose, or...?" the woman's voice was cool and calm, with only the slightest hint of humour in it.

"Huh?"

She folded her newspaper and placed it onto her knee.

"Row 13, like your racing number? I mean, you _are_ Daryl Dixon, right?"

Daryl bit his lip and nodded. Man, he hated attention from fans.

"Yuh-huh. Mean... yes ma'am."

"Don't worry," she smiled, showing white teeth that made her red lipstick even more vibrant. "I'm not going to ask for your autograph."

"Good. 'Cause I ain't givin' any out."

Daryl could sense that she wouldn't be offended, and he was right. She laughed, and it lit up her whole face. A headwrap the same colour as her lipstick was over her locs, and the gold bangles on her wrists jingled as she held her hand out for Daryl to shake.

"I like your attitude, Daryl. Hershel sure has a lot on his hands with you, doesn't he."

Daryl regarded her coy smile.

"What do you know about Hershel?"

"Oh I know _lots_ about Hershel."

She grinned again, calmly buckling her seat belt as the stewardesses walked down the aisle to do their final checks before take-off. Daryl did the same, wondering who this intriguing woman was. She seemed awful knowledgeable.

They both fell silent as they ascended, and Daryl gripped the arm of the seat as he always did. Flying was something he was still getting accustomed to, but his companion sat back, humming softly and happily to herself.

"You can let go, now," she said drily.

Daryl looked down at his white knuckles, and let go of the arm.

"Guess you're braver on a bike than up in one of these things, huh?" She handed him a piece of candy. "Here, suck this when we're landing. It'll stop your ears from popping."

When the stewardess approached with the drinks trolley, Daryl's companion ordered a vodka on the rocks and set it down on her tray table with a file full of paperwork. Daryl assumed she was some sort of businesswoman – a lawyer or an accountant or something. As she opened the file and pulled out a page with numbers on it, he saw a familar silver and purple logo.

"Hey, you work for Katana?"

Katana were a Superbike team who'd only formed a few seasons ago. They were steadily getting better each year, and their chrome and electric purple bikes were the most eye-catching in the sport.

She sipped her vodka.

"Something like that. If you count my Uncle owning the team, then yes."

Daryl nodded, impressed.

"Stop dicking me about. Who are you?"

She smiled, getting her purse and handing him a business card.

"My name's Michonne. I've just been appointed the new team manager of Katana."

*

After Rick won the race in Detroit, Michonne came to find Daryl to offer her commiserations.

"Got interviews to do," he complained.

"I'll walk with you to the press tent, if you want?" she suggested.

"Do what you want," Daryl shrugged.

Michonne laughed. Daryl's rudeness seemed to amuse her greatly, and he found himself liking her because of it.

"Ya had a good race," he told her. The two Katana bikes had come in 4th and 7th in the main Superbike race.

"We need to do better," she said firmly. "That's why I'm here. Been around bikes all my life, then I was at business school. It's my job to make anything less than first and second a major disappointment."

"Somethin' tells me you'll do it," Daryl chuckled. "Think your riders will be too damn scared of ya to do anythin' but win."

*

In Memphis, Rick had lost the front of his bike at Turn 12 and ended up skidding across the gravel. He'd ended up in ER with a nasty case of road rash that had needed a serious amount of antiseptic and bandages. Daryl had helped him heal up; gently applying the cream and then wrapping a long length of gauze around his forearm each morning and evening.

In Indianapolis, there had to be a photo finish between the two of them. While they were waiting on the offical confirmation, they made a bet that whoever came second had to give the other a blow job. Within an hour, Rick was on his knees in his hotel room with Daryl's cock in his mouth, the pair of them naked and sweating.

In New Orleans, Daryl's rear tyre blew out. Everyone marvelled at how he was able to stay on the bike, calmly steering it into the gravel trap, where he sat on the tyre wall to watch the rest of the race. When Rick crossed the finish line to win, Daryl asked one of the marshals for a cigarette. The photo of Daryl Dixon lying flat on his back in his leathers, nonchalantly smoking while his teammate took the Championship lead, became a more famous image than that of Rick Grimes taking the victory. And the fans loved him for it. Hershel had wanted to murder him.

Something happened at each and every track and city they travelled to. It was a tense, close season; one the journalists said was the most exciting in years. Some of the other teams bitched about Team Greene winning everything, but they knew they were watching something special – the blossoming of Rick Grimes and Daryl Dixon, two Supersport riders who could both go onto the Superbike category and potentially become the biggest names the sport had ever seen.

*

Second to Daryl. Again, Rick thought angrily. For the first time, he felt like kicking the door of the motorhome in. It was too fucking hot, and Daryl had 3 interviews lined up for that evening, which meant they couldn't even fool around a little between dinner and bedtime. He just wanted to get back to the motorhome, pack up his shit, and get back to Atlanta and the comfort of the ranch. Maybe his dad would have cooked something good up on the grill for him; steak and potato salad would be good.

He saw a figure leaning against the team's hospitality tent, and rolled his eyes. Not today, Rick thought. He'd given a million autographs over the weekend and he couldn't face one more. As he got nearer, he saw it was a girl – one of the grid girls, in fact, the ones who held umbrellas for the riders while they sat on their bikes before the race. She had a tight white leather skirt on and a red halter top, and her brown hair was so long it almost reached her waist. She saw him, smiling immediately. Her eyes were dark and mischevious.

"You want my autograph?" Rick asked, pulling off his gloves.

She shook her head with a smile.

"No, I want your number."

Rick almost choked. She was pretty. Very pretty. He didn't speak to girls much, never had, either before or after Daryl had come into his life.

"You're kinda forward, ma'am. That's a compliment, before you punch me. I feel like you might."

"You don't remember me, do you?" she smiled coquettishly.

"Should I?"

She held her hand out. Rick wasn't sure if she meant for him to kiss it or shake it, so he did the latter, and she laughed.

"I was with Shane, season before last. On the back of his bike."

Rick squinted. He vaguely remembered, but Shane was with a different girl every weekend, it seemed.

"I remember it well," Rick lied.

"I'm very glad to hear that, Rick," she winked. "My name's Lori."

*

Daryl was surprised to find that he enjoyed talking to Michonne during every race weekend. Or rather, he was surprised that she wanted to talk to _him_. He cringed inwardly when he imagined the kind of things Merle might have said about her. Daryl found himself slightly in awe of Michonne; she was strong and intelligent. As the only female team boss, she had to be.

"Hershel told me to keep my paws off you," she told Daryl one hot afternoon. She laughed, and stretched back lazily.

"Did, did he?"

"Yeah." Michonne sipped her apple juice. "Says that if I poach any of his riders he'll stick a knife in all my tyres. I think he was only _half_ -joking, you know."

She crossed her legs, narrowed her eyes, and smiled slyly at Daryl.

"What did you _think_ I meant by me keeping my paws off you?" she teased. "Did you think I meant that I was looking for a talented young toyboy?"

"Nuh-uh," Daryl replied, looking down bashfully at his feet. The blush spread up his neck and to his cheeks and forehead. Michonne was grinning with glee at his discomfort, her gaze never leaving his face. Eventually she cocked her head to the side and smiled gently.

"It's okay Daryl, you're not my type." Michonne licked her lips and opened her mouth as if to speak. She paused, then seemed to make up her mind about what to say. "Rick though... he's hot. He single?"

Daryl froze. This time his face felt like all the blood had run _from_ it. His mouth gaped open like a fish momentarily. A look of realisation spread across Michonne's face.

"... _Oh_." She placed a hand on top of Daryl's. "Won't go any further."

"Ain't nothin' to _go_ any further," Daryl growled.

"Okay, okay," Michonne soothed. "Just... I have an apartment in the city. If you – either of you – ever need it. Can't be easy."

Daryl chewed the inside of his cheek and mumbled a thanks.

"It ain't. But me an' him... we're not, _you know_. I mean, we do stuff. But we ain't never..."

Daryl didn't know why he was still speaking. But he felt like he could trust Michonne, as much as he had ever trusted anyone. She seemed unshockable and genuinely willing to help. She touched his cheek lightly. He didn't flinch away.

"I have a cousin," Michonne began. "Saw him struggle with the same things. Saw him embarrassed about... buying the stuff he needed to. You understand? I helped him. I can help you."

Daryl blushed again.

"Why would you help me?"

Michonne waved a hand.

"I can spot a fellow outsider in this world, Daryl. We gotta stick together." She winked. "Also – God, you two boys are hot."

Daryl flipped her the bird, but he laughed.

*

Rick had just left Daryl's hotel room when there was a light tap at the door. Daryl answered quickly, expecting to see Rick again, pretending to have forgotten something on the hope of another blow job, but it was Michonne.

She held out a small paper bag.

"Got you something."

Daryl made to open it, but Michonne pushed his hand away.

"It's just a few things from the drugstore across the street. For you and Rick... if you need them, some day."

Daryl gripped onto the bag as if it was an explosive device.

"Thanks, 'Chonne."

"Don't mention it. Oh, and there's some CK One in there too."

"What the fuck is CK One?"

Michonne rolled her eyes.

"It's new. Wear it."

She left, and Daryl flopped down onto the bed, tipping the contents of the bag onto his lap. He opened the aftershave and took a long sniff. Sure didn't smell like something a man would wear, smelt like perfume. It stank.

He picked up the other items Michonne had bought him, his hands shaking as he twirled the little tube around in his fingers, and read the back of a pack of rubbers. The thought of using them thrilled and terrified him in equal measure. He almost couldn't admit to himself how much he enjoyed it when Rick slid one or two – and once, three – fingers inside him. He tried to tell himself that he didn't crave something bigger and harder, something that would ease the need and ache he felt there.

He put the items quickly back into their bag, shoved them into a drawer, and slammed it shut.

*

Richard would sometimes shout at Rick and Daryl for reading at the dinner table, but more often than not, it was he that left motorcycle magazines lying there after eating breakfast. Weekends without races left them all plenty of time to catch up with reading. Rick had gotten up early with the intention of taking his dirt bike out, but had found Daryl already up and having breakfast.

Daryl was mid-way through his second helping of scrambled eggs and toast when he grabbed the newest edition of US Superbike Monthly. Rick had known an article about Team Greene would be in the latest issue, but he was trying to resist reading it. When you were embroiled in a Championship battle, it was far better to ignore the media – it could fuck with your head if it was bad, or inflate your ego if it was good. He had hated being interviewed that day, hated the photo shoot even more so. He'd put a brace face on, of course, as he always did. Daryl had made his displeasure at the whole thing abundantly clear.

Daryl made several _pffft_ noises as he read, sometimes tutting and sometimes giving a dry laugh.

"What's it saying?" Rick asked, stealing a slice of toast from his plate and slathering it with Daryl's hated peanut butter on purpose. Daryl glared at Rick as he took a large bite and started chewing happily.

"Loada crap," Daryl spat. "Out there riskin' our lives an' them assholes do nothin' but write shit."

Rick grabbed the magazine off him and started reading. Most of it was just going over how the season was unfolding, and comparing he and Daryl's riding styles, but he frowned as he read the last few paragraphs.

_The riders are obviously close, happy to share tactics and information about their bikes, and indeed Dixon still lives at the Grimes ranch. I asked him about how this came to be, but he was evasive. It's fair to say that Dixon is a difficult character off the bike – whether that's shyness or he's just naturally rude, I didn't manage to figure out._

__

_Grimes in contrast is polite, friendly, and articulate. I ask him what he would have done if he hadn't been a motorcycle racer for a living. "Probably a cop, like my grandpa," he laughs, and it says it all about his honest nature and respectable persona._

__

_And yet it's Dixon who currently leads the Championship. I ask his mechanics what they think of him, and their eyes light up as they talk about his natural talent and exciting riding style. Isn't he abrasive and frustratingly monosyllabic behind the scenes, I ask? "No," an unnamed team member tells me. "He says what needs to be said and that's all we need."_

__

_I'm in the garage when the riders are getting their picture taken together for this interview. Grimes smiles widely, square-jawed and with piercing Paul Newman eyes. Dixon point blank refuses to look directly into the camera, and is childish and sullen for the entire shoot._

__

_Hershel Greene appears, and puts an arm around each of them._

__

_"I've never had two riders in my team who are so evenly matched," he beams. "One's the most consistent young rider I've ever known, a _machine_ , and the other one..." He gently cuffs Dixon around the head. "...well, he's a brake demon and not good for my heart."_

__

_I spoke to several Paddock insiders during my time at the track, and the consensus is that Hershel will choose one of them to move up to his Superbike team next season. With only one spot seemingly available, either Grimes or Dixon is going to be very disappointed._

__

_I can't help but feel that if Hershel really had to choose, he'd go for Dixon. You know what to expect with Rick Grimes, yes. Not so much with his mercurial, temperamental teammate. It's the classic Heart vs Head conflict. Either way, we may be about to see the Python versus the Black Cat off track as well as on it._

"You think that's what people will start calling us?" Rick asked, putting the magazine down.

"What?"

"The Python and the Black Cat."

Daryl snorted. "Hell, I dunno. If it sells magazines, then yeah, I guess so."

Daryl got up and stuck two more slices of bread in the toaster. Rick watched as he ate a spoonful of strawberry jello straight from the jar.

"You know, if you maybe stopped eating all the bread we could get to the dirt track for an hour or two before seeing that movie you want to this afternoon."

Daryl turned, teaspoon in mouth.

"The Brad Pitt one with all the murders?"

Rick nodded. "Yeah, that one. Heard it's all kinds of fucked up. Right up your street, Daryl."

Daryl smiled.

"Think it might be way too scary for you. Maybe _Babe_ is still showing, ain't that more your thing?"

Daryl laughed heartily, and Rick soon joined him, enjoying the sight of Dixon when he wasn't being oh-so intense.

"What's so funny?" Richard walked into the kitchen, bemused by the sound of laughter.

"Just talking about what to see at the movies later," Rick replied, starting to clear the breakfast dishes away.

"No movies today," Richard said, his face turning serious. "Hershel wants to see the two of you."

*

Daryl and Rick sat on the porch of Hershel's old farmhouse as his daughter served them sandwiches and pitchers of sweet tea. Rick had made an effort, wearing his best black shirt and jeans. Daryl had pulled a ripped t-shirt out of the laundry and kept on the pants he'd had on for the past 3 weeks. Hershel didn't employ him for his appearance now did he.

Rick didn't eat much, but Daryl scarfed down the food, burped, and then asked if there was any more. Rick glared at him, but Daryl ignored his gaze.

"Hungry?" Hershel asked, suppressing laughter.

"Greedy, more like," Rick replied sardonically, and Daryl looked at him, eyebrow raised.

"Well, at 20 I was a bottomless pit, too," Hershel smiled. "There's plenty more, Daryl, if you want."

There was a thud as Rick put his glass down.

"'M fine," Daryl said.

"Well then," Hershel said calmly, topping up all of their glasses. "Now that Mr Dixon has had his fill of my food, I'll not beat around the bush about why I've brought the two of you here today."

Daryl felt his heart rate increase. There were a lot of scenarios flying around his brain, none of them good. Nothing ever _was_ good, when you were a Dixon. He'd enjoyed his time racing but it had to end sometime. He guessed that 'sometime' was right now.

"Abe is retiring at the end of the season," Hershel stated.

Daryl's eyes widened. Abe was the top rider in Hershel's Superbike team – a no-nonsense, powerhouse of a rider with the heart of a lion. He'd been in the team for almost a decade and won Hershel more trophies than probably he could even count.

"So there'll be a spare ride in my Superbike team," Hershel continued. Daryl held his breath. "I've said it dozens of times this year – I can't choose between you two. As far as I'm concerned, I'd promote both of you to Superbike, but there isn't two free spaces. So..." He leaned closer. "The only way to do this fair and square is to give the ride to whichever one of you has the most points at the end of the year. And you know as well as I do that that means you both need to win the Supersport Championship."

Daryl's first instinct was to tell Hershel to give the ride to Rick. In the whole time he'd known him, he had just wanted to support Rick; for him to be happy. But then he saw the steely determination on Rick's face; the want for what Hershel was offering – and suddenly Daryl felt that yearning too. Why not _him_? He had never thought that he'd escape his daddy, or become a motorcycle racer, or be in a team like Hershel's, but somehow he had.

_But that was all because of Rick_ , the voice inside him said. _Rick deserves this._

Hershel's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"I'm here if you have any questions, boys."

"What about whoever doesn't get the ride. He just get dumped?" Daryl questioned.

"Whoever doesn't get it can stay in the Supersport team, Daryl. You know I want to keep both of you racing for me somehow."

They both shook Hershel's hand and said their goodbyes. Rick climbed into the driver's seat of the truck he'd borrowed from his dad, and put on his seatbelt without saying a word.

"Hey," Daryl said, breaking the awkward silence.

Rick turned to glance at him.

"We don't need to talk about all of this, do we?"

Daryl shrugged.

"It's _your_ ride, Rick. What you were raised to do."

"You've just as much right to it." Rick paused and licked his lips. "I mean, if Hershel was going to choose one of us, it'd be you."

"Oh yeah? How'd you reckon that one out?"

Rick gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and started straight ahead at the road.

"Come on, Daryl. Neither of us are blind, here. He likes you better. You're more of an exciting racer to watch and you have the background story too... don't pretend like you don't know."

"Fuckin' hell, Rick," Daryl replied, exasperated. "Sorry I had a daddy that beat the fuckin' shit out of me. You wanna go through that so Hershel prefers ya? Ya wanna go back in time and _swap_?"

"No of course not!" Rick said hurriedly. "I'm sorry, Daryl. That's not what I meant."

Daryl sat back in the seat and crossed his arms.

"We do this the right way, okay?" Rick said. "We race as hard as we can and no hard feelings whichever one of us gets it. Deal?"

"Deal," Daryl replied. "Should be you, though. You're meant for it."

Rick indicated and pulled up at a layby. The road was deserted and they were an hour and a half away from the ranch.

"You really think that? Even though you have as much a right?" Rick asked, his blue eyes focusing softly on Daryl's face.

"Yuh-huh."

Daryl swallowed hard. He and Rick weren't much for talking. Not about things that didn't relate to motorbikes and racetracks, anyway.

"It's jus' how I feel," he said quietly, staring down at his knees. He fidgeted in his jeans pocket and pulled out his cigarettes and lighter. He could think clearer with a smoke in his hand. "I jus' like you havin' things that ya want. 'Cause ya deserve them."

Rick didn't say anything, just gave a slow nod. He looked tired – washed out, even – but handsome. So handsome. Daryl lit up, taking several long drags. He blew out smoke.

"Guess it's 'cause I feel like... I dunno... like I miss ya, even when I'm with ya. _Here_." Daryl put his palm against the middle of his chest. Grimes was getting no more of an admission than that. "Ya know what I'm saying."

"Yeah, I do." Rick's face broke into a small smile. "Same, Daryl."

*

The house – if you could even call it that – was still the same. Rusted cars and machinery surrounding the property, and a porch that was rotting away. A tattered Confederate flag billowed in the evening breeze, and the trees were stripped bare. The rocking chair was still in the corner of the porch, below the broken window. Daryl could hear the television blaring, and smell greasy fried food emanating from the open front door.

His hands were trembling as he pulled his bike up and walked towards his old home.

The smell of tobacco hit him as soon as he entered, and sure enough his daddy was sitting in his normal worn armchair, spitting it into a bowl.

"What the hell..."

Daryl stood still, unsure what to say or why he had even come. In the years since he'd last seen Will Dixon, his daddy had ballooned in size; his face red and veiny from years of alcoholism. The t-shirt he wore was stretched across his large belly, and it was ripped and covered in food stains.

Will Dixon stood up, still a towering figure. Daryl's shoulders hunched, and he felt himself almost shrinking in front of his imposing father.

"You have a nerve showing your face in this house again, boy."

Will's teeth were yellow, with spittle forming at both sides of his mouth as he ranted at Daryl.

"You want the red carpet laid out for you, huh? Think yer somethin' special now that you're a motorbike racer?"

Daryl jutted his jaw defiantly, determined to show his daddy that he wasn't a scared 14 year old boy cowering in the corner any more.

"So you know? You watch it?"

"Yeah I watch it," Will spat in reply. "What, you think you can come here and I'll tell ya how great ya are? Nah, looking at you now, yer still the same useless piece of trash ya always were."

Daryl leant in. His daddy's breath stank.

"Yeah? Well so are you, asshole."

Will lifted his arm up as if to strike Daryl, but drunkenness and ill health meant that Daryl was able to back away in time. Daryl laughed bitterly.

"You useless fuck. You're so wasted you can't even hit me anymore. A fat old drunk."

Will's face was puce with fury. He smiled, showing that two of his top teeth were missing. Some drunken mishap or bar fight, no doubt.

"Think yer some great shakes now, don't ya? You got the best team and the best bike, ain't nothin' impressive about winnin' when ya have that. An' as for Grimes, oh he may treat you good, give you bed and board, but let me tell ya – Grimes is as mean as they come, an' I'll be bettin' his son's no different."

Will picked up his beer and drained the rest, crushing the tin when he was done and slamming it down onto the table. He belched.

"Ya ain't _nuthin'_. 'An you'll see I'm right."

Daryl looked around with disgust at the empty fast food cartons that were covering the carpet, the cigarette burns on the arms of the sofa, and the sweat stains under his daddy's arms, and resolved that he would never see this place, or Will Dixon, ever again.

*

Rick was in the motorhome changing into his leathers before the last race when he heard the tap at the door. He knew it wasn't Daryl, who normally gave one loud knock before coming on in. Rick hurriedly pulled up his leathers and went to answer, even though he was still shirtless.

"Hello Rick."

Rick took a step backwards, suddenly feeling slightly shy about the fact he was naked from the waist up.

"Hi."

"Hi _Lori_ ," she giggled.

Rick blushed.

"I remember. How are you, Lori?"

She twirled a lock of hair around her finger. Rick couldn't help looking her up and down – she was wearing a white mini-skirt and bright pink stilettos, with lipstick to match.

She winced, pointing to her right foot.

"I'm okay, I guess. But my shoes are just _shredding_ my feet. You wouldn't have a band-aid for my heel, would you? Help a girl out?"

"I'm about to go to the garage..."

Lori scoffed.

"Oh come on, it will only take a second."

Rick rubbed his eyes.

"Okay, okay. Dad has a medical kit somewhere. Come on in."

Lori followed him back inside, her heels clip-clopping on the floor. She sat down at the table with a sigh, taking off the offending shoe. She rubbed her foot with a groan, pointing her toes at Rick. He noticed that her feet were tiny and her toenails were painted red.

"You riders think you have it so hard," she winked. "But try standing in 4 inch heels all day posing."

Rick huffed a laugh, rifling through the medical kit to find a band-aid that would fit Lori's heel.

"You been doing this grid girl thing long?" he asked, attempting to make conversation and be polite. He really didn't have time for this, but she seemed like a nice girl – sweet and pretty.

"Couple of seasons," she replied. "I love it, but some of you guys are real assholes."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah!" Lori arched her foot again. "Not all of you, though."

Rick found the band-aid and made to hand it to her. She shook her head.

"Would you mind?"

Rick knelt down and pressed the band-aid onto her blistered heel. She gave a small sigh of satisfaction.

"Feels so much better already," she smiled. "Guess you have the magic touch."

Rick stood up, shuffling his feet awkwardly.

"Um..."

Lori got up and placed a kiss on his cheek.

"What a gentleman. Good luck today, Rick."

*

"Hey Dixon!"

Daryl emerged from the garage to see Shane leaning against the wall, almost as if he'd been waiting specially.

"What do you want, Walsh?" Daryl asked gruffly.

"Just wanted to ask you if you knew Rick finally looks like he got himself some pussy," Shane grinned.

Daryl's face blanched.

"What?"

Shane shrugged, faux-innocently.

"Oh well now, I don't know, I'm just guessing."

"Why? _Why_ you guessin'?"

"'Cause, Dixon, I saw one of the girls come out of his motorhome, with only one shoe on, and he was all rubbing his cheek and stuff 'cause her lipstick was on it. Hoo boy, he's lucky with that one, I know. She sucked _my_ cock real good until I got bored with her."

Daryl's lack of response caused a wide grin to slowly emerge on Shane's face. Daryl scrunched up his face and threw his hands up.

"So fuckin' what? I'm not his fuckin' keeper. Grimes can do what he wants."

"Or _who_ he wants," Shane laughed thickly, before walking away.

Daryl kicked at the ground before making his way to the motorhome. He took the steps two at a time and threw the door open without knocking, hoping Rick would still be in there.

He wasn't, but Daryl could see how the chair was pushed out like someone had been sitting on it. He sat down, running his hand through his hair and trying not to think about what Shane had said. Walsh was an asshole – Daryl _knew_ that – but it's not like Shane knew about him and Rick; he had nothing to gain from telling Daryl about whoever this bitch was.

Something caught Daryl's eye. It glinted on the floor. Daryl bent down to see what it was, grabbing it and rolling it between his fingers. It was a gold lipstick, and when Daryl took the lid off, the stick itself was a garish bright pink. Daryl squashed it against the table until there was a mess of pink all over the wood. He threw the lid against the wall and left.

Daryl went into the garage and stood in front of his bike, staring at the immaculate, glossy black paintwork. She was the only thing he could rely on; the only thing he could have complete control over. He felt sad, angry, confused. He felt like he could punch the next person that so much as looked at him, or down a shot of moonshine, or smoke a cigarette.

He and Rick had never said what they were, if they even were anything. And neither of them had ever said they were what Merle would have called _fags_. Daryl wasn't interested in girls, but that didn't mean he was one of _them_. He wasn't interested in anyone but Rick, never had been. Probably never would be, now.

Rick though. Who knew what he was? Maybe he liked both, Daryl considered. Maybe he had just been a bit of fun for Rick, someone who Rick knew would always just be there. And yeah, he'd pretty much told Daryl he loved him, but so fuckin' what. Merle had said that too – _Love ya, little bro, that's why I gotta teach you to be a man_ – and it hadn't meant _shit_.

Daryl rested a hand on the seat of his bike. Everything else might have gone to hell, but he had this bike. And it could get him onto Hershel's Superbike team for next year. All he had to do was win.

He had pole position, right in front of Rick.

He could, and would, beat Rick Grimes.

*

_The Team Greene Showdown_ , people were calling it. Word had spread amongst the Paddock that either Rick or Daryl were going to be promoted. Aside from the OJ trial, it was all anybody was talking about.

Rick had gone to Daryl's side of the garage before they had left for the grid, but Daryl had pulled on his helmet and then gotten onto his bike, wordlessly. Rick empathised – they both knew that today's race was big. All the same, he'd expected Daryl to at least tell him to have a good race. Rick couldn't wait to tell him all about the weird thing that had happened with that Lori girl; he knew Daryl would laugh his head off at the thought of some girl barging her way into their motorhome on the pretence of a heel blister.

Now, he sat on the grid as he waited for the flag to be waved. A few metres ahead of him, Daryl sat in pole position. _First blood to Dixon_ , the track announcer had said.

Rick waited for the track official to wave the flag, the noise of rumbling motorbike engines all around him. He looked towards the first corner and then to Daryl, seeing the black cat on the back of his helmet, looking menacing. Rick thought of the pistol on his, and swallowed hard.

He'd studied the track layout, and his plan was to follow Daryl closely all race, and then pounce towards the end. He knew Daryl would guess his tactics, just like he knew that Daryl would go hell for leather and try to open up a large enough gap so that Rick wouldn't ever be close enough to overtake him – but Rick felt confident about how the bike beneath him felt.

On lap 5, the rain started. Rick cursed under his breath, knowing Daryl was just so much better in these conditions that he was. Within seconds, Rick felt like he was riding on an ice rink; his front wheel wanting to go the opposite way that he was telling it to.

After another 2 laps, Rick was still right behind Daryl. Usually he vanished into the distance when the track was wet and greasy like this, but today Rick was easily keeping pace with him. Maybe, just maybe, he could get past. Rick rode right up to the back of Daryl's bike, but suddenly Daryl wobbled on the sodden asphalt, and Rick was unable to stop himself from slamming into the back of Daryl's seat. Carbon fibre shattered everywhere, and then Rick was veering across the track, his eyes closed as he tried to remember to let his muscles go slack before the final impact.

He landed heavily on his back, his leathers protecting his spine. Rick managed to lift his head up, feeling winded but immediately wiggling his fingers and toes to make sure he wasn't badly injured. He lifted himself onto his knees, seeing Daryl only metres away doing the same thing; two destroyed Team Greene bikes lying mournfully on the wet gravel.

The fans in the grandstand behind them were on their feet, screaming and yelling at seeing the two Championship contenders out of the race. Teammates colliding was the worst thing that could happen, and Rick winced as he thought of how furious Hershel would be. At the thought of Hershel, Rick suddenly realised that with neither he nor Daryl scoring any points, he was World Champion again. And he'd be racing in Hershel's Superbike team next season.

As he looked over to see Daryl trudging through the gravel without a word, Rick lay back down again and began to cry.

*

The team's hospitality crew had brought in crates of beer and champagne for the weekend, knowing that one of their riders would be crowned Champion. Daryl knew that some of the mechanics preferred hard liqor, and he managed to find his crew chief, Theodore, at the back of the garage, still poring over paperwork even though everyone else had started celebrating.

Theodore stood up as soon as he saw Daryl, giving him a rueful smile. He held his hand out.

" _Almost_ had it," he said. "Next year, Dixon. You okay?"

"I'm fine, T. Medics gave me the okay. Jus' the bike that's fucked," Daryl replied, looking around. "Hey, I know you've got to have a bottle or two of bourbon around somewhere."

Theodore shook his head slowly, but his eyes lit up.

"You're not 21 yet..."

"So?" Daryl replied. "Dixons can drink."

*

_Thud – thud – thud._

Rick opened his hotel room door as quickly as he could before any of the other guests heard the commotion of Daryl trying to kick it in.

"Told ya," Daryl seethed, barging his way inside. "I _told_ ya – try any shit on me again and I'd put ya into the wall."

"It was a _mistake_ ," Rick retorted. "You know it can happen. I got too close, you seemed to lose control, and I couldn't stop the bike, I... "

"Fuckin' cheatin' PRICK!" Daryl shouted, face bright red and teeth bared.

Rick took a step backward in shock at the venom in Daryl's eyes. This couldn't be just about the move.

"Dar..."

"Save it, Grimes. You're a fuckin' cheat and a fuckin' lyin' cunt."

Rick saw the sweat on Daryl's forehead, heard the slight slur in his words. He put his hands up.

"You're drunk."

Daryl rolled his eyes and fumbled for his cigarettes.

"Oh yeah, yeah. Forgot the spoilt lil' rich kid ain't never dared to get lit. Well good for you, Grimes. I mean, fuckin' _congratulations_."

Rick felt like the blue touch paper inside him had been lit.

"Spoilt rich kid? Are you fucking for _real_? My dad did EVERYTHING for you."

Daryl gave a short, harsh laugh, waving his fingers in a _come on then_ gesture.

"That's right, Grimes, let it all out. Give me the _If it wasn't for my family_ speech. Know you're thinkin' it."

Rick swallowed and pressed the sides of his nose. He tried to breathe slowly, just like he'd read he should when he felt like this. Around him, the hotel room seemed to be spinning as he tried and failed to quell the rage simmering inside him. Hitting Daryl had been nothing more than a racing incident - how dare he be so furious, so resentful, so cruel? Rick faced up to him, their chests almost close enough to touch. Rick could smell alcohol on Daryl's breath mixed with too many cigarettes, and for the first time he felt sickened by it. He shouldn't be standing there so close, thinking about punching Daryl. He loved him. He should be standing there wanting to kiss him, to touch him – to fuck him like he'd been thinking about for _months_.

Rick could feel the heat emanating from Daryl's body. He'd always adored that before, the fact that Daryl aways felt warm and solid. Now it felt like the fury was coming off him in waves.

"You wouldn't have had the chance to sit on a bike again let alone one of Hershel's Superbikes if my dad hadn't saved you from the kicking your daddy was giving you that day," Rick said, dangerously quietly.

Daryl bit his lip and nodded up and down as Rick spoke. He was breathing heavily through his nose and sucking in his cheekbones. Rick ignored how stunning he looked; how his eyes glowed and his light pink lips pursed.

"Without us," Rick continued, "you'd still be having cherry pip spitting competitions with Merle and the rest of your white trash family. Everything we did for you and you won't even let me _fuck_ you."

The next thing Rick felt was a sharp pain in his jaw as Daryl threw a right hook at him. He staggered backwards, his hand going to his bottom lip and wiping away blood. The punch wiped out any anger he felt, and suddenly he felt completely destroyed and guilty by what he'd just said. That anger, that uncontrollable anger, was going to ruin everything he loved.

"Daryl..."

Daryl pointed at him, face drawn and devastated.

"Fuck you, Grimes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Norman fans will maybe know why I mentioned Fake Plastic Trees by Radiohead in this chapter! Sometimes I listen to playlists of the years my chapters are based in to get myself in the right headspace, and this was a song that came up in the 1995 one.  
> 2\. Rick hitting the back of Daryl's bike in the last race was based on this – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dS6hcZA3soU. Those guys stayed on though, heh.  
> 3\. Throwing in all these 90s references is making me nostalgic for those times. Not everyone is old af like I am so if anything doesn't make sense, just ask!
> 
> Thank you to all readers. I really appreciate your comments, it keeps me so motivated to write :)


	9. 9.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _For the first time since he'd started racing, Rick wasn't excited about starting the new season._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly shorter, perhaps less dramatic chapter this time. I hope it's still enjoyable, I think lots still gets packed in.
> 
> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/

_**Dixon Quits Team** _

**_March 02, 1996_ **

**__** _There was turmoil in US Supersport today as it was revealed that Daryl Dixon has sensationally quit Team Greene. With the new season due to begin in two weeks, Hershel Greene has been left without a star rider for his Supersport team now that Dixon has departed and Rick Grimes has been promoted to the Superbike team._

_Both Greene and Dixon were unavailable for comment, but an insider has told us that Dixon has not joined another team, and indeed appears to have left the sport entirely._

_Paddock rumours of a bust-up between former teammates and best friends Dixon and Grimes seem to be unfounded. At the time of print, Dixon's whereabouts are unknown._

_*_

"Trust me, Rick," Richard said, picking up the day's newspaper. "When you two are older and have finished racing, you'll forget all of this. Winning seems like the most important thing in the world, I know. But when you're older, your priorities change. Somehow it won't mean as much as it once did. Been there."

Rick stared at his bowl of cereal, willing himself to eat some. He'd lost weight in the five months since Daryl had moved out, everything tasting like ashes in his mouth.

"I don't think so, dad," he shrugged.

Richard poured them both orange juice, his brow furrowed.

"I miss having him around too, Rick," he admitted, his expression suddenly looking far away. "An extra person around here made the place feel a little less empty, but that's life, and that's racing. You're not the same people you were when you were teenagers. You're almost 21, and not everyone can stay in your life for good."

Rick stood up, tipping his cereal into the trash. He knew his dad was trying to help, but he didn't know that it wasn't just a case of him losing a friend over racing – he had lost more than that. He had lost _Daryl_.

"We said some awful things to each other," he admitted. " _I_ said awful things. I don't think he'll ever forgive me."

Rick went outside and up to Daryl's old room above the garage, staring wistfully at the Triumph Daryl had fixed up as he did so. After Daryl had left, Richard had told Rick to launder the sheets and tidy up as part of his chores that week. Rick hadn't, and the bed remained in the same unmade state it had been the last time Daryl had slept in it. The pillows lay on the floor, and the pale blue sheets were kicked down to the bottom of the mattress. The ache in Rick's chest was overwhelming as he imagined Daryl lying there, reading a novel, or tinkering with whatever he'd found in the garage that day.

He'd called Daryl white trash. He'd taunted him with the fact that the Grimes family had done everything for him. All that he knew about Daryl, and Rick had hit him where it would hurt the most. He'd replayed their fight over and over in his head a million times, and he still couldn't fathom why Daryl had been so angry at him. Sure, he'd taken the both of them out during the race, but he knew Daryl – he knew that eventually he would have seen it for the innocent racing incident it had been. And Rick getting the Team Greene promotion would have been something that Daryl would have been happy about, once he'd gotten over the fact that it hadn't been him.

For the first time since he'd started racing, Rick wasn't excited about starting the new season. The new bike was larger, more powerful, and a hell of a lot more temperamental. His dad tried to tell him that no-one was expecting him to perform miracles in his first year riding a Superbike, but Rick wasn't stupid. He was a double World Supersport Champion, and the son of Richard Grimes. People expected _everything_ from him. He'd meant to spend the weekend packing his bag, but the thought of being in a hotel room and not having Daryl in the same corridor somewhere left him feeling hollow.

He'd tried calling, but Daryl point blank refused to speak to him. And now he had to face the prospect of beginning a new racing season without his best friend. Rick clenched his hand into a fist and bit down onto his knuckles to stop himself from sobbing.

He kicked off his baseball shoes and crawled into Daryl's old bed. He was disappointed to find that the sheets didn't smell of Daryl, just faintly of the cigarettes that he shouldn't have been smoking in bed.

Rick gave in and succumbed to the tears that had been threatening to fall all day. Five months without laying eyes on Daryl Dixon. Soon it would be six. Then a year. Then, maybe, forever.

*

Even now, after five long months, Daryl couldn't get used to living in a city. Atlanta was stiflingly hot, crowded, and noisy. Daryl needed empty spaces, the noise of nature, and most of all, less people.

Michonne's apartment was modern and stylish. Daryl didn't know how he'd ever be able to repay her for the hospitality she had shown him, but she swore she didn't mind him staying there. Daryl barely saw her anyway – she worked hard at the Katana HQ downtown during the day, and seemed to have endless parties and dinner dates to go to in the evenings.

More often than not, Daryl was alone all day every day. He knew he should try to get a job so he could at least help with rent, but he was qualified for fuck all, and he hadn't had much schooling. He'd barely ever watched television before, but now he lay on the leather couch for most of the day, glued to mind-numbing soap operas and MTV. They were seven floors up, and the lack of even a small garden to sit in was killing him.

"I'm worried you're becoming addicted to _Murder, She Wrote_ re-runs," Michonne had joked one evening over a bottle of red wine.

"I'll be out of here as soon as I have somethin' else sorted, I swear," Daryl replied, finishing his glass.

"I told you, it's no problem," Michonne said, topping up both their drinks. "We'll work something out. Just stop Jack from chewing all my shit, okay?"

The dog's ears pricked up from his spot on Michonne's antique rug. She pretended to be irritated by his presence, but Daryl had caught her feeding him large pieces of roast chicken only a few days before. Both he and Jack would be getting fat if he didn't get up off his ass and do something other than eating potato chips and watching _Friends_.

"New season starts on Sunday, Daryl," Michonne said tentatively.

"Yes it does."

"Are you going to come with me?"

"Nope."

Michonne nodded, knowing not to press the issue.

"You're going to watch it on TV, right?"

Daryl shrugged.

"Guess so."

Daryl would absolutely be watching it on TV. Despite himself, he wanted to see how Rick got on in his first race on a Superbike. He hated himself for being curious about it – Rick's words still stung. And that girl Shane had said he had seen Rick with... who was she? Was Rick fucking her? Fucking her 'cause Daryl hadn't?

Michonne was annoyingly perceptive.

"You should call him to say good luck."

"The hell I will."

She rolled her eyes.

"You two not speaking... it wasn't just about the race, was it?"

"Was." Daryl chewed on a fingernail.

Michonne tutted.

"Lie to me one more time and I'm going to tell the press where you are."

"He was with a girl, okay?" Daryl snapped, exasperated. "Some umbrella bitch. It weren't just 'cause he pushed me off the track."

"He didn't push you off the track, I watched the footage and... "

"Jesus, Michonne! You on my side or what?"

"I'm _on_ your side," Michonne replied firmly. "If I wasn't, you wouldn't be staying here. Just... stop being a stubborn asshole. Come to the race this weekend. You can stay in the Katana garage, there's no need for you to see Rick if you don't want to."

Daryl stood up.

"Michonne, I _can't_."

He felt Michonne's eyes on him as he went to his bedroom, feeling as heartsick as he was the day he had walked away from the Grimes ranch. Michonne's spare room was the cleanest, most pristine place he had ever slept in – all starched white sheets and hardwood floors – but he missed his messy little room above Richard's garage.

He took off all his clothes and threw them onto the green armchair in the corner, burrowing himself down into the double bed, and pulling the sheets over his head. Michonne had given him her CD walkman, and he put the headphones on, skipping to track 2 of the latest Smashing Pumpkins album.

After he replayed Rick calling him white trash in his head a few times, he fell into a restless sleep.

*

Rick found that in the end, being back on a motorbike on a racetrack was somewhat comforting. Under his helmet, the world beyond didn't exist. Problems didn't exist. Daryl Dixon didn't exist – although Rick did find that sometimes he looked out for a helmet with a black cat on it. But for the most part, for the best part of an hour, speed was all that mattered.

He came 9th on his Superbike debut, more than he had dared dream of. On a brand new bike, it was a great result. As Rick sat at the back of his garage with his crew chief afterwards, he saw Hershel appear, smiling widely. He shook Rick's hand warmly.

"Good race, Rick. 9th for your debut is solid. In a few races I expect to see you on the podium."

That was Hershel – he could be complimentary and supportive, but always with an underlying reminder that anything other than perfection wasn't enough.

He placed a hand on Rick's shoulder and sat down beside him. Rick's crew chief made himself scarce.

"Your dad's told me you've not been the best, Rick."

"I'm fine, I..."

Hershel shook his head.

"You don't need to pretend. I like my riders to be honest with me, you know that. Look, it's hard when friendships break up because of racing, but it happens. Seen it time and time again, Rick. Lots of things change in this sport – the technology, the tracks, the people. But one thing that doesn't change is that riders will always, _always_ ruin relationships off-track because they just want to _win_."

Rick clenched his jaw and nodded.

"I wouldn't let anything get in the way of me winning, sir. You can count on that."

"I know. And I _will_ be counting on that. But I understand the need for friends, too. This can be a lonely life, travelling from track to track. Daryl was a damn good rider, but the fact that he's not here right now and _you_ are? Well, maybe that shows that you getting this ride was for the best all along."

When Rick didn't answer, Hershel put a hand on his shoulder again.

"Word is that Shane Walsh might be making the move up to Superbike next year. Now I know that maybe you two haven't been close over the last few years, but maybe you can help each other get used to everything. I remember you and him running around the paddock as toddlers when your daddy was still racing."

"Maybe," Rick lied. He'd lost Shane's friendship, and now Daryl's. What if he just wasn't meant to have anyone close in this sport.

*

Daryl sipped from his mug of coffee as his new work colleagues stood around the small television in the garage of the motorbike shop he'd found a job in. One or two of the guys had realised who he was, and word had soon spread that a former World Supersport Champion was working there.

"Want to see, Dixon?" one guy said, moving a few steps back and leaving a gap for Daryl.

"Nah," Daryl replied. "Need to look at the exhaust of that '77 Harley that was brought in yesterday."

"For real?" his colleague replied, disbelieving. "You're missing a hell of a race here, man. Grimes is living up to his old man's reputation today."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah – started 20th on the grid and he's up to fucking 4th. Kid is really getting to grips with Superbikes now, only the third race of the year and he's making some of the others look like amateurs."

Daryl relented, and set his mug down on the workbench. He stood between his workmates and quickly became engrossed in the race. The camera was on Rick, who was trying to overtake the rider in front for 3rd place.

"You miss it?" someone asked Daryl, and he shrugged.

"Miss my bike. Don't miss the shit that goes with it."

"Aw man," his colleague said. "I feel like you deprived us all of some great racing. Why the hell did you quit?" He pointed to the TV. "Working here, when you could be _there_?"

Daryl stared at his feet.

"Jus'... weren't for me, that life," he said lowly, before walking away. As he worked on the Harley, he could hear the other guys cheering and enthusing about how well Rick Grimes had done to get his first Superbike podium.

Daryl irritably turned the volume of the radio up to drown out the noise. Of course he fucking missed it. Not the stupid reporters or intrusive fans, but the noise, the smell, the feel of being on a racetrack and pushing himself and his bike as much as he could. Nothing would ever give him that buzz again, just like no person would ever make him feel like he had felt when Rick's hands and mouth were on him.

He was finishing an oil change when his boss told him he was shutting up for the night. Daryl was almost always one of the last to leave – he had fuck all else to do. He felt out of place in Michonne's apartment, with her art and coffee table books.

"Any of the guys going to the bar after?" he ventured. His boss shook his head.

"No Daryl, it's a Sunday and people are going home to their families. Wouldn't have had any of you in today at all if we weren't so busy."

Daryl shrugged. He didn't need company to drink anyway. He walked to the dive bar around the corner and pulled up a stool at the end of the bar, ordering a beer.

"You 21?" the barman asked.

"Was my birthday last week."

"This one's on the house, in that case. Seeing as you're my only customer."

Daryl drank the beer, then three more before saying his goodbyes to the barman and going back to the apartment. Michonne was out, so the place was in darkness. Jack barked as soon as he saw Daryl, bounding towards him across the shiny wooden floor. Daryl pressed his face into the dog's fur.

"Miss him, huh?" he soothed.

Jack licked Daryl's cheek.

Daryl took him outside, sitting on a bench with a cigarette while Jack did his business. Back inside, he heated up a tin of chicken soup, opened a beer and sat down onto the couch. Some bullshit game show was on, and Daryl stared at the screen numbly until it ended. He filled Jack's water bowl, and went to bed. It was only 9pm.

*

Rick swallowed hard as he saw Shane in the restaurant of the hotel they were staying in. His dad hadn't come to this race, and LA seemed like the loneliest place in the world to eat alone in. Shane was at a table by himself, an empty chair opposite him.

"Can I...?" Rick said, wincing at the nervous croak in his voice.

"Sure," Shane handed him a menu without looking up. "They have cheeseburgers, I know that's what you'll order. Cheeseburger and fries, a large Coke, and strawberry cheesecake. Right?"

Rick smiled.

"Right. Post-race treat."

Shane shook his head, laughing.

"Man, you don't change. When we were kids, that's all you ate as well. Except you'd squirt so much ketchup on those things that you'd end up with it all over your face."

They both laughed, and it almost felt like old times before they both seemed to suddenly remember that they weren't friends anymore, and stopped. Rick was relieved to see the waiter approach to take their order. Daryl would never have sat here with him, he'd always eaten junk from the vending machine, or made Rick order him room service because he didn't want to talk to anyone on the telephone.

"Good race, Shane," Rick said, holding up his glass.

"You too." They clinked their glasses and both took a drink.

"Having you and Dixon out of Supersport sure makes winning easier for me," Shane admitted. He paused. "Shouldn't be telling you this, but I'll be in Superbike next year too. Signed the contract just last night."

Rick smiled, genuinely happy for Shane.

"That's great news. Who with?"

"Sanctuary Racing."

Rick almost spat out his drink.

"Holy shit!"

Sanctuary Racing were one of the biggest teams in Superbike. Their team boss, Negan, was known for chewing up and spitting out rider after rider, if he deemed them not good enough for his team. Their logo was barbed wire in the shape of an S, and to Rick's mind, it said it all about the menacing nature of the team.

"It'll be a challenge, Rick, ain't denying that," Shane said through mouthfuls of fries. "But man, I can't wait to sit on one of those red bikes. And come on, my dad's a cop, I'm used to dealing with assholes like Negan. Once I start winning for him, he's going to be a pussycat."

"It'll be good to be back racing against you again, Shane. I mean that."

"Same, Rick. I know we ain't been..."

"I know."

Shane reached across and stole a fry from Rick's plate.

"You still see Dixon?"

"Nope."

"Probably a waste, not having someone with his talent racing anymore. Guess he couldn't stop himself from hitting the self-destruct button, huh? Typical Dixon."

"Shane..."

"Okay, okay. Just think it won't do you any harm not hanging out with him anymore, that's all I'm saying."

Rick finished his food. The silence had become awkward again with the mention of Daryl, but on the whole, he found he was having an okay time. Sitting here shooting the shit with Shane was preferable to going back to his room, with only the television for company.

"What happened to that grid girl you'd been seeing?" he asked.

"Who?" Shane took a drink of water.

"Lori. She spoke to me a few times. I haven't seen her around."

"She was finishing her studies. She'll be back next race."

Shane smiled the kind of smug, shit-eating grin that only he could.

"We kept in touch. Girl just couldn't keep away."

"Poor her," Rick joked. "Are you two...?"

Shane sat back, licking sauce from his fingers.

"We will be, Rick. We will be."

Rick didn't much feel like listening to Shane describing exactly what he planned to do with Lori when he saw her again, so he passed on dessert and went to his room. He packed his bag for the flight home the next morning, or rather, threw everything in haphazardly, his clothes having lain on the floor in a crumpled mess all weekend. The case wouldn't close at first, so Rick pulled everything out in order to start all over again. At the bottom of the case, he saw a white t-shirt he didn't remember packing. He shook it out, seeing the black Sonic Youth logo on the front. Fucking Dixon, he'd always snuck bits and pieces into Rick's bags so he would have to do less laundry.

Rick held it up to his nose. It smelt slightly of sweat under the arms. Daryl's sweat. Rick took off the pyjama top he had had on, and pulled the t-shirt over his head instead. He shoved his clothes back into his case, and got into bed, thinking of all the times Daryl had worn this t-shirt. Rick remembered a kiss when he'd slid his hands underneath it, feeling the light hair on Daryl's chest. That had been in Rick's bedroom when his dad hadn't been home. Rick remembered the heat of Daryl's body that day; the way he had trembled when Rick had eased a hand underneath his waistband. Rick breathed heavily, the memory painfully recent yet a universe away now. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the way Daryl's mouth had opened for his, the way he had let Rick press him against the wall, the way his cock had felt in Rick's palm. Rick slid a hand down under his pyjama bottoms and began to stroke himself rapidly. He missed Daryl the person, but he missed the physical contact as well, and his body needed the release, as bittersweet as it was.

He breathed Daryl's name as he came.

*

"Mother _fucker_!" Michonne grimaced, throwing her keys down onto the kitchen table.

Daryl immediately handed her the glass of vodka he had poured in anticipation of her arriving home from the latest race. Katana were a midfield team, but Daryl could see how much more potential they would have with better riders. But until they started getting more points, Michonne couldn't afford to hire anyone better. In the race the day before, her number one rider Nicholas had stalled on the grid and failed to even start.

"What am I paying these idiots for?" she cried, sitting onto the sofa wearily and kicking off her sandals. She took another drink as Daryl sat down beside her, letting her vent. "We're halfway through the season and Nicholas has ten points. _Ten_. As soon as I can hire someone else, he's out. I have my people scouting the Supersport guys right now to see who would be a suitable replacement." She threw her hands up. "I knew it was going to be hard work when I took this job, but I feel like a laughing stock."

"You'll find another rider," Daryl reassured her. "'S plenty young guys in Supersport who'd jump at the chance." He chewed the inside of his cheek. "Hate ta say it, but what about Shane Walsh. Know he's a prick but he's winnin' since me an'... I mean, he's winnin' in it this year."

Michonne raised an eyebrow.

"Wow, you really _are_ out of the loop, Daryl. Haven't you heard? Shane's already signed up to ride in Superbike next year with Sanctuary Racing. His contract would never let him come to Katana."

Daryl snorted.

"Figures. Team full of assholes hires another asshole."

Michonne nodded.

"Well... it'd be unprofessional of me to agree, so..." She winked. "Anyway, what did you do today?"

"Watched television."

"Uh-huh. What else?"

"Drank coffee."

"Okay, good to know you're staying hydrated. Anything else?"

Daryl sniffed. "Took Jack out for a shit."

Michonne set down her glass, her face wrinkled in disapproval.

"You are a bum, Daryl Dixon. I refuse to let you mooch around my apartment for a second longer."

"I..."

"Shut up," she held a finger in the air. Daryl was too scared to open his mouth again. "Here's what's going to happen. You are going to get your ass back onto your dirt bike first thing in the morning. You're going to do the same thing for the next two weeks. And then you're coming to Memphis to ride for Katana."

"Am _not_ ," Daryl stormed.

Michonne grabbed her glass and knocked back the rest of her vodka.

"Yes you damn well are. You have lived here _gratis_ for months. You _owe_ me. Why am I watching my team suffer when the best damn rider in the sport is becoming at one with my couch!"

"But Rick..." Daryl mumbled.

Michonne gave him a death glare.

"Rick _what_? Get your behind onto a bike _asap_. I mean it, Daryl. I'm not asking you to ride the rest of the season for me, just this next race until I get a worthwhile replacement for Nicholas. I _know_ you're out, but think of it like you're a wild card entry. You can't deny that wouldn't be fun. Your brother did it, didn't he?"

"Aw come on, 'Chonne. Ya can't just mention Merle and expect me not to agree."

"You _owe_ me," Michonne repeated.

*

Rick and his father arrived at the Memphis track early Thursday morning. Rick couldn't believe that it had been a year since he'd crashed at this track. His left arm still bore the scars of the road rash he'd suffered – horrible skin abrasions from skidding against asphalt. If it hadn't been for Daryl making sure he had kept it clean and bandaged he could have been even more scarred. Rick bit his lip to stop himself from thinking about it, and went to dump his rucksack in the motorhome.

"Hey!" a voice called as he was about to walk up the steps. Looking around, he saw it was Shane waving. Leaning against him was Lori. Rick gave him a nod.

"Hey Shane."

"Got a meeting in 5 minutes, can I count on you to look after Lori for me while I'm gone?"

Rick shrugged.

"Sure."

Lori followed Rick into the motorhome, where he poured them both some drinks and handed her a bag of potato chips. She shook her head vehemently, complaining that she would never fit into the catsuit she had been given to wear that weekend if she ate even one.

"So you and Shane are back together?" Rick asked. "That's good news."

"Yeah, he's cute. Knows it – but cute. And he seems to like me. There's no point wasting time chasing guys who aren't interested."

She smiled, almost sadly, and Rick noticed how her hazel eyes were framed with long lashes for the first time. He hoped Shane was good to her. She was a little scatty, maybe even a bit of an airhead, like the cheerleaders he'd gone to school with – but she seemed like a nice girl underneath the blow dried hair and false eyelashes.

They made polite conversation for a while – he learnt that she too was from the outskirts of Atlanta, that she had two older sisters, and that she was terrible at cooking.

"Shane won't like it," Rick shook his head, laughing. "I think he's turning into the kind of man who'd expect a wife to have dinner on the table for him every night."

Lori rolled her eyes.

"Well then he needs to learn that it's the 90s and that guys can do that stuff just as well. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Are _you_ that kind of man?"

Rick stuttered and looked down at the table. How could he answer when he didn't even know? He'd never had a girlfriend. He'd never wanted one, because all he'd known since he was 13 had been Daryl Dixon. He didn't even know if he liked girls. Or boys. Or both.

"Don't think so."

Lori's mouth turned up at the side and she ran a finger around the rim of her glass.

"No. No I bet you aren't. Bet you'd be real good to a girl."

Rick choked on his drink and stood up, scratching the back of his head and mumbling something about needing to get to the garage to speak to his mechanics. Out of the side of his eye, he could see photographers running down the length of the paddock. He moved the blinds to one side and squinted to see what was going on.

Michonne from Katana was striding down towards their garage with one of her riders. She was wearing oversized black sunglasses and a skin tight purple halter-neck, talking animatedly to the slightly taller figure beside her. Rick's stomach lurched as they got closer. He saw the sullen expression and the dirty blond hair, and swore.

"Fuck."

Lori joined him, looking out. Rick could smell her flowery perfume.

"Isn't that..?"

"Yeah."

"Huh," she shrugged. "Guess Katana got their replacement rider then."

Rick felt frozen to the spot. As Michonne and Daryl walked past, Daryl's eyes glanced up at the window of the Team Greene motorhome and Rick stared straight back. The best part of a year had passed since he'd seen Daryl, and Rick didn't know why he had expected Daryl to look any different. Maybe he wasn't as skinny around the waist as he had been, and his face looked kind of drawn, but yep, Daryl hadn't changed.

*

"Ya need to change the weight distribution on this heap a' shit," Daryl said as soon as he pulled his helmet off after the race. He was exhausted; his body covered in sweat and his muscles aching after the physical shock of racing for the first time in months. The race had been long and hard, and he had no idea how he'd managed to stay on to even finish. He'd come in 15th, and only then because riders had dropped out with mechanical issues. "I ain't surprised that no-one else has done jack shit on this thing."

He was tempted to kick the bike, his forearms on the verge of cramping after throwing it around the track.

Michonne stood with her clipboard.

"Okay, okay. First things first, get sitting down, get hydrated, and we can go through what you think the problems are."

Daryl sat down in the corner and glugged from a bottle of chilled water. He was bright red and his hair was plastered to his head. Outside the garage, photographers clambered to get his picture, but Michonne ordered one of the mechanics to pull the shutters down.

"Bike has no grip from the front, so ya can't carry speed into the corner. Happens in the centre of each turn, after the entry. An' there's too much horsepower, so when ya accelerate, ya spin too much."

An hour had passed before Daryl and Michonne finished going through all of his feedback and data.

"You see?" Michonne implored. "This is why I need you."

Daryl stood up and unzipped his leathers.

"Well there ya go. I told ya what was wrong with the bike. Whatever guy you hire can start from there."

"Woh woh woh," Michonne pressed a hand to Daryl's shoulder. "Come on, one race isn't enough. How can we know we've improved it unless you're there to tell us? There's six races left this year. Give me those six races, that's all I ask."

Daryl threw his head back and sighed. He'd managed to get by this weekend with only seeing Rick Grimes through a window, and he'd been so far behind during the race that he'd only seen Rick's bike once, but if he did the last six races, it would be impossible to avoid him. Then he saw the way Michonne's eyes were pleading with him.

"One condition."

"I don't expect you to do this for free, if that's what's wrong," Michonne said, barely concealing the hope in her voice.

"Nah not that," Daryl shook his head. "Don't give a fuck about the money."

"Then what is it?"

"Ya know Richard Grimes?"

Michonne nodded slowly.

"Only on professional terms with him, but he and I haven't ever had a problem. Why?"

Daryl sighed.

"There was a bike I fixed up for him, when I was livin' at his ranch. A Triumph TR6. I'd give anythin' to have that bike. If you could ask Richard..."

"Consider it done," Michonne replied firmly. "So you'll do it?"

"I'll do it."

"Good." Michonne put her hands on her hips. "Let me get one thing very straight – I'm the boss here. But you tell me what this bike needs and you'll get it."

*

"So what do you think about your former teammate Daryl joining you in Superbike, Rick?"

"I think it's great. He deserves it."

Behind him, Rick's team were cheering for his first ever Superbike podium. He'd felt elated, and had been eager to talk to the press about how he'd managed to get a third place, but they just wanted to talk about Daryl.

"In just two races with Katana, he's already getting better results than his predecessor did. Do you think their bike is improving, or is it just because Daryl Dixon is on it?"

Rick wiped the sweat from his face with a towel.

"Both, I guess. It's difficult making the leap from Supersport to Superbike, but he's done it really well, especially coming in halfway through the season and... look, do you have any questions about _my_ race?"

The reporter asked a few questions but Rick could tell that his first podium hadn't been the story that he wanted him to talk about. He stood on the podium, stony faced, thinking about how no matter what, it was Daryl that everyone had always loved. Hershel, the fans, even his dad – they had all admired Daryl for his devil may care attitude and absolute refusal to play the game. Rick didn't dare admit to himself that there was an element of jealousy in everything he did. He tried harder, he worked harder, he raced harder – just to get them all to have the same light in their eyes that they had when they were watching Daryl race.

It had become something of a post-race tradition now for he, Shane and Lori to have dinner together. They talked about silly things – television shows, football, 3celebrities; and indulged in idle gossip about other riders and grid girls. In some ways, the trivial conversations they had were a breath of fresh air for Rick. With Daryl, their chats had either been extremely deep, or non-existent. Shane talked and talked, he had an opinion or everything, and while some of them bordered on offensive, Rick began to remember how much Shane had always made him laugh. He began to look forward to them hanging out. He was 21 now and it was nice to just have some fun.

"Let me set you up," Shane kept saying. "Lori has a lot of hot friends. What do you want? Blonde, brunette? Bet you'd go for a cheeky little redhead, wouldn't you, you dirty old bastard."

_Dark blonde with collarbones to die for and a nicotine addiction_ , Rick felt like saying. Instead he would tell Shane that he was too focused on his racing to have time for relationships. Lori would always tell Shane to shut up, that if Rick didn't want to be distracted then he shouldn't be forcing girls on him.

On the flight home from the New Orleans race, Shane was sitting beside Rick. It was a red-eye, and most of the passengers were asleep.

"You gotta let me set you up, man," Shane whispered behind his hand. "These grid girls? They give it up like _that_." He clicked his fingers.

"Shane, I..."

"C'mon, man. All this pussy wanting to get with a rider and you're not partaking? Rick, you'd have your pick. Be like a fuckin' buffet for you, man. I hate to say it, but you ain't grown up so bad. You ain't an ugly guy."

"Wow, that's so good of you to say, Shane," Rick chuckled. "I guess I just want something a bit more meaningful than a buffet, as you so delightfully put it."

Shane flicked Rick's ear.

"Whatever. Just wanting you to get your dick wet for once, man. I mean, you have before... right?"

"Pfft, of course," Rick blushed. _Not in the way you think_ , Shane, he thought. _I've probably come more times than you have. My dick has been wet in Daryl Dixon's mouth, and his in mine. His hands have been on my cock ten times as many times as Lori's have been on yours._

In the two races since Daryl had come back, Rick and he hadn't spoken. It was easy in Superbike to avoid people, if you wanted to. There were so many mechanics, fans, and media hanging around that the paddock and grid were constantly crowded. It felt kind of comforting, though, to have Daryl back on the same racetrack as him. Someone who he could trust if he had to overtake him. He just wished he could talk to Daryl about all the fears and insecurities he had about finally reaching the main category, and the worries he had about fucking it all up.

He still hated being alone in hotel rooms too. _The travelling is tough_ , his dad had said. _Luckily after a couple of years, I had your mom. That will be you soon, too, I'm sure._

He'd stopped jerking off to thoughts of Daryl.

On Shane's prompting, he'd taken some blonde grid girl called Andrea on a date. She'd ordered a salad, and picked at it the whole time. She hadn't known anything about racing, telling him that she was just there to hold an umbrella. When he took her back home, they had sat in his car talking for nearly half an hour before she asked if he was going to kiss her. He had, and her lips had felt unusually fleshy and wet. Soft, and too delicate for him to feel like he could really press against her and go for it. She had slid a hand between his legs, found nothing, and he had made an excuse about being tired. He didn't ask for a second date.

The only place he felt good was the racetrack. For a rookie, he knew he was doing well. Not just well – great. It still felt strange to see Daryl in slate grey and purple leathers instead of the same black and green that Rick was wearing, but his dad had told him how much respect he had for Michonne as a team manager, and Rick was happy that Daryl had found a good team who would treat him well.

Hershel quickly extended his contract for another two seasons. It was weird, committing such a huge chunk of your life to something like that, but Rick was realising that there was nothing in his life apart from racing. Even if he and Daryl had still been... whatever they had been, it wasn't like they could build a life together. No, the only thing Rick had was a helmet on his head and a motorycle between his legs.

*

"It's for you," Michonne held the receiver out. Daryl shook his head, he hated speaking on the telephone, but she was insistent.

"Yeah?" Daryl said.

"Charming as ever, I see."

Daryl winced.

"Oh, sorry. Mean... sorry, Mr Grimes."

"I hear you want the Triumph."

Daryl squeezed his eyes shut, feeling nervous and like the young teenager he had been when he first met Richard Grimes.

"I do, sir. Worked hard on her, think I did a good job too."

"You did a great job, Daryl." Richard smacked his lips. "Okay, you can have it, I need the room in the garage and I know Rick won't touch it."

"Thank you, sir."

Richard's voice became quieter.

"I'm glad you're back racing, Daryl. For Rick's sake."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. Rick rides better when he has you to compete against." He paused. "I don't want to interfere in whatever happened between you two boys, but he misses you. And I don't like seeing my son so down. Can't you..."

"I'm sorry, Mr Grimes," Daryl replied, his hands shaking. "Just some things that ya can't come back from. Rick'll be fine."

"Okay," Richard gave a heavy sigh of defeat. "Come over later, you can collect the Triumph then."

Daryl was sweating as Michonne dropped him off at the bottom of the long driveway that led up to the Grimes ranch. He walked past the fence he'd help fix, the meadow that he and Rick had so loved, and the fields where they had made out and argued and chased after their dogs. Six happy years he had lived here, and yet now he felt like he was intruding on a stranger's property.

The basketball hoop was starting to rust, Daryl noticed, and the paint was peeling on the front door.

The garage door was open, and the bike was already sitting outside on its stand. Daryl could tell it had been freshly washed and polished.

"Hello."

Rick emerged from the garage with a chamois in his hand. It was the closest Daryl had been to him since he'd started racing again, and this was definitely the first time he had looked into Rick's icy blue eyes again. Rick was in a plain black t-shirt and ripped jeans, his short hair highlighting his strong jaw. Daryl felt like he'd gone mute.

"She good to go?" he eventually rasped.

"All good," Rick gave a half-smile, but Daryl just kicked at the stones on the ground.

"Tell yer dad thanks."

Daryl wheeled the bike off the stand and threw a leg over it. He was about to start it when Rick's voice came thick and desperate.

"I shouldn't have called you white trash," he cried, an ache in his voice that Daryl could feel. "Or said any of the shit I did. But you said some things to me too. I'm not spoilt, Daryl. And I would never cheat in a race or ride into you – or _anyone_ – on purpose."

Daryl turned around to see Rick standing with his arms outstretched. Pleading. He remembered the sting of Rick's words and the way his face had seemed so twisted and angry.

"What was said was said," Daryl replied gruffly, incapable of looking Rick in the eye. "Can't forget it. Can't be your friend – or whatever – and be your rival too. Think we've both found out that it can't work like that."

"We could try..." Rick said softly.

"But we both want to win." Daryl remembered his daddy's words. _Let me tell ya – Grimes is as mean as they come, an' I'll be bettin' his son's no different._

Rick was about to reply when the noise of another motorbike engine stopped their conversation. Daryl watched as it made its way up the driveway and skidded flamboyantly right in front of where they were. He muttered _prick_ under his breath as he realised it was Shane.

"Dixon?" Shane laughed. "Rick invite you out with us tonight?"

"He's picking up a bike," Rick said quickly.

Shane raised an eyebrow and grinned.

"More than welcome to come into Atlanta with us, Dixon. Me, Rick, Lori and one of her friends are going to a club. I'm sure she could bring another so you could have a date too. What do you think?"

"Thanks for getting the bike ready," Daryl told Rick, pulling on his helmet and riding away.

_Assholes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and for any kudos/comments, I adore reading what you think. 
> 
> One thing I'm worried about is getting the equal mix of Daryl and Rick; I hope it comes across like I am dedicating roughly the same amount of time and words to each of their parts.
> 
> I am about a third of the way through Chapter 10 at the minute, but excitingly, I have written the last ever paragraph of the ENTIRE fic! 
> 
> Next chapter in a couple of weeks.


	10. 10.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Just like he and Daryl had joked all those years ago, the media were stirring up the title fight, calling it **The War of The Python and the Black Cat.**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Just over 13,000 words for this chapter. Writing this one has been a bit of a rollercoaster.  
> Just a warning that something not very nice happens in this chapter; I hope you enjoy it regardless and understand why it took so long to write this one!
> 
> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/  
> I also post updates there about posting times and how far behind I am!

Daryl saw the nervous expression on Michonne's face as he rode into the pits after the final test session before the new season started. She grasped her clipboard full of notes to her chest, and was tapping her foot anxiously.

Daryl got off the bike and took his helmet off deliberately slowly. Michonne's eyes widened and she held her hands out as if to say _Well?_

Daryl patted the seat of the new bike, and gave a short nod.

"Ain't bad."

Michonne followed him into the garage.

"Would I be right in guessing that in your typically understated way, you're telling me that the bike is _good_?"

Daryl ate half a banana in one bite.

"Said it ain't bad."

" _Daryl_..."

Daryl knew that tone. Michonne used it when she wasn't in the mood to be fucked with. He swallowed.

"Feels good, Michonne. Damn good. Could do with some more downforce, but let's have a go. See if we can't get some podiums."

Daryl didn't move his head in time to avoid Michonne planting a chaste kiss on his cheek. How had it come to this? One race for Katana had turned into the rest of the season. Then Michonne had asked him to sign a proper contract for this year, too. Her enthusiasm for the team was infectious, and Daryl had to admit that he was looking forward to the challenge of turning Katana from a midfield team into a race winner. He was being guarded about what he really thought of the new bike – it was _much_ better than he was telling Michonne. Not perfect, certainly not as good as the Team Greene bike Rick would be on, but it felt grippy and nimble, and Daryl had a feeling that he could really do great things on it. And he wanted to do it for Michonne; she had worked her ass off hiring the best mechanics and engineers, not to mention that he was still living with her. Now that he was earning a rider's wage again, he wanted to pay her back as best he could and then find his own place. Somewhere with a garden for Jack to play in. Somewhere far enough away where people couldn't bother him. He'd gone from his daddy's house, to the Grimes ranch, to Michonne's apartment. He felt adrift.

"You know, you're free to bring anyone back here, Daryl," Michonne told him one evening. He had just come out of the shower, where Michonne had been chatting to him from the lounge. He leant against the doorway, a towel wrapped around his waist and beads of water dripping from his hair onto his top lip.

"What?"

Michonne looked him up and down appreciatively and raised an eyebrow.

"You know, you're a good looking guy. I don't mind if you ever bring back company."

"Ain't nobody I'd want to bring back." Daryl smoothed his wet hair from off his face, drawing another look from Michonne.

"Well, you can. I know you miss..."

"Stop talkin' about this," Daryl warned, pacing into his room and leaving wet footprints over the wooden floor.

"Okay," Michonne backed down. "It's true, though; about you being a good looking guy. I think it's right that someone should tell you that."

Daryl slammed his bedroom door and looked around. He had two bags – one full of team gear, and the other with the few clothes he owned. Some dog toys lay on the floor, and an empty can of deodorant was on the nightstand. Aside from that, there was nothing. Bring someone back? Who the fuck would come back to this? Who would he even want to bring back?

He pulled on baggy jeans and a vest, feeling guilty about the door slam. He opened the door and poked his head around it. Michonne was lying on the couch reading one of the bullshit self-help books she liked.

"Hey," Daryl looked at her sheepishly.

"Yes?"

"Just... thanks. For what ya said, and yer offer. But ain't no-one I want to do anythin' with. Never has been, asides from... well, ya know."

Michonne set her book down onto the coffee table.

"I know. You still have the uh... _stuff_ I gave you, right?"

"Right."

"Maybe one day..."

"Nah," Daryl snatched Michonne's book up. "He wants to win too much an' he don't care if that means screwing me over."

"Don't you feel the same?"

Daryl shrugged.

"Maybe. Hey Michonne..?"

"Yeah?"

Daryl held her book up with disdain.

" _Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus_? What is this crap?"

*

Rick couldn't sleep. He never could, these days. The only place he ever remotely got a full night's sleep was in his own bedroom at the ranch, even though he was becoming slightly embarrassed that the decor hadn't changed since he was a teenager. Even the other bed that first Shane, then Daryl had sometimes slept in was still there.

His insomnia was made worse by the post-race adrenalin running through his veins. He switched on the bedside lamp and rifled around the sheets looking for the remote. He watched an episode of The X Files, but couldn't concentrate. All that was on his mind was the new bike. During the race, it had felt amazing; like it had been made for him. He'd come second, but his initial joy was already becoming tempered by the knowledge that everyone would be expecting the same, and better, for the rest of the season. Rick pressed a hand against the centre of his chest as he thought about it. He rubbed his breastbone hard and took several deep breaths.

When he felt like this – like he couldn't breathe, like he wanted to curl into a ball – his first thought always went to Daryl. Daryl had felt like his anchor, the person who he could lean on, both physically and mentally. And he was somewhere in the same hotel. What would he be doing? Sleeping? Or lying watching TV same as Rick? Rick turned around to punch the pillow with frustration.

Daryl had come 4th, but Rick could tell that the new Katana bike was really going to be a title challenger this season. Michonne had done a hell of a job, and with a rider as good as Daryl, they were going to be a threat to Team Greene. Rick's hands and underarms pricked with sweat as he thought about how gruelling another Championship battle against Daryl would be. He felt exhausted just thinking about it, but he had a contract, and dammit, he wanted to win a US Superbike Championship. He wanted to win _multiple_ Championships, just like his dad had.

Rick got back out of bed and changed into a vest and shorts. He grabbed his bottle of water and a towel, and made his way to the hotel gym on the ground floor. He'd started working out more, even though his dad had laughed and said that he'd never needed a gym back in his day, but Rick found that he enjoyed pounding away on a treadmill or using the rowing machine. It was the only thing that seemed to help clear his mind these days, now that he didn't have Daryl to confide in. And if he was the fittest rider in the sport, it could only help him race better too.

Within an hour, Rick was plastered in sweat and his muscles ached pleasantly from the work-out. He'd taken his vest off, and his shorts sat low on his thin lips. He stood on the treadmill, looking at himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror opposite. His frame was still wiry, but the regular working out had given him lithe, lightly muscled shoulders and forearms. He hadn't shaved for a day or two, but the heavy stubble on his face still didn't hide his strong jawline. Shane had told him that he wasn't bad looking – Rick wasn't sure, but he knew that he was in good shape.

He picked up his things and walked back into the hotel corridor, still bare-chested and slightly out of breath. The revolving doors at the reception moved, and then Daryl was skulking in, head bowed. Rick smelt the smoke.

"Fuckin' Michonne always books non-smoking floors," he grumbled by way of explanation.

"It raining?" Rick heard himself ask. _Yeah, talk about the weather, you sorry prick_. Daryl said no, clearly feeling just as awkward.

They walked towards the elevators together.

"You still living with Michonne?"

"Yup. For now."

"For now? Where would you move to?"

Daryl just shrugged.

Rick pressed the button, wishing he had just taken the stairs rather than suffer the prospect of an excruciating elevator ride with Daryl. He stared up at the light showing the floor numbers. 4, 3, 2...

The doors opened and Daryl held an arm out, motioning for Rick to go in first. He didn't follow, just stood there looking Rick up and down with some undefinable expression on his face. Rick looked down at his own body self-consciously – seeing how his chest was still damp and his shorts clinging to him. Daryl licked his lips.

"Think I'm gonna just go outside for another smoke. Bye, Rick," he rasped.

The doors closed.

*

"Clutch on that bike is slippin'," Daryl raged as he arrived back into the Katana motorhome from the podium. He handed Michonne his first place trophy.

Michonne gave him his team baseball cap. Man, Daryl was getting really pissed off with being told what to wear, what to say, what to drink; all to keep fucking sponsors happy. He knew that this was the way it had to be in Superbike, a lot of people were putting a lot of money into teams, but it just felt fake to him. He grudgingly placed the purple cap on his head before he had to go outside to sign autographs and give interviews.

"Thought you'd at least be a little happier about your first Superbike win," Michonne mused. She hadn't stopped grinning since the second that Daryl had crossed the finish line.

"Was lucky," Daryl replied, sighing as he saw the mountain of fan mail sitting waiting for him on the table. He sat down, opening the first envelope and pulling out a set of photographs showing a woman in various states of undress. "Jesus fuckin' wept."

Michonne erupted into laughter.

"I told you, you're a good looking boy. Bet 99% of that fan mail is girls who want you."

"They can keep wantin'. Unless they can fix my clutch."

Michonne pulled out her notebook and pen.

"We'll get it sorted. How was the bike aside from that?"

Daryl launched into a list of improvements he wanted for the next race. It was funny, he would rather do anything but talk, normally, but when it came to this, he spoke more than he ever had in his entire life. He shouldn't have won today; the bike hadn't felt as good as it had in the first couple of races, and if it wasn't for the fact that Rick had retired with an engine problem, he probably would have been the winner. And Shane, that asshole, he had been up Daryl's ass on his Sanctuary Racing bike for the last 5 laps.

He couldn't deny that winning had felt pretty damn good though. He wanted more. Briefly, he wondered how Rick felt after his bike had let him down, but just as quickly, Daryl's thoughts turned to the fact that he had won while his main Championship rival hadn't scored any points.

"We'll get the clutch issues sorted," Michonne reassured him, standing up and beckoning for Daryl to do the same. "The most important thing to take from today is that Team Greene's engines failed. We're right up there, Daryl. If not the best bike, we're one of them."

"Sanctuary Racin' look pretty damn good too," Daryl replied, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Walsh coulda won today."

"He could have," Michonne agreed. "And Negan's team is a problem. Did you see Shane cut across the front of Rick at the beginning of the race?"

"Was a dirty fuckin' move," Daryl nodded. "Especially on his _best friend_ ," he continued, resentment all too evident in his voice.

"Well that's Negan's tactics for you," Michonne replied coolly. "Win at all costs, even if it's outside of the spirit of the rules." She looked at her watch. "I hate to tell you, but you have an autograph session in 5 minutes, then a photo shoot for a sponsor, then an interview with a local newspaper."

Daryl groaned.

"Come on," Michonne smiled. "Your female fans will be sending you even more nude photographs of themselves if they see a new photoshoot of you looking... _sexy_."

Michonne was still cackling as Daryl walked out and slammed the door.

*

Rick was running third in the Los Angeles race. His bike didn't feel great - he'd gotten the set up all wrong and he had no traction. The sweat rolling down his forehead was stinging his eyes, and he hated to settle, but he knew that third at best was all he could realistically hope for. He glanced over at the pit wall to see his team holding up a sign saying that there were 3 laps left.

The noise of the other bikes buzzed in his ears and brain. _Bzzz bzzzz bzzzz_ , that constant hum reminding him that this was his life. He felt like the grip of his thighs was the only thing keeping the bike going in a straight line, and he cursed inside his helmet as he saw Daryl zipping away into the distance, closely followed by Shane. Rick felt mixed emotions about who he wanted to win; but if it was Shane, at least Daryl would score less points.

Rick kept his eyes on the two of them as he entered Turn 13, a long right-hander where'd he'd overtaken a few bikes earlier in the race. If Shane was going to make a move anywhere, Rick knew, it would be there. Rick managed to stay close behind the leading pair, seeing how Shane was getting closer to the back of Daryl's bike lap by lap. Rick knew that Daryl wouldn't be phased by Shane; his bike was great, he was a better rider, and sheer dislike for the other rider would no doubt spur him on as well.

Two laps from the end, Rick eased off the throttle, deciding to just bring his bike home in third. Katana and Sanctuary had done a better job than Team Greene this weekend and there was no point risking anything at this late stage. Third place still gave him valuable points. His dad had taught him to be sensible; play the long game and steadily gather up points. Rick knew that if Daryl had been in his position, he would have risked a crash just to try to win.

The front of Rick's bike wobbled, and he inwardly admonished himself for letting his thoughts wander. He looked further up the track as he went around Turn 12. The two leading bikes were approaching Turn 13, and Rick's eyes were on stalks as he watched Shane spear down the inside of the corner in a reckless attempt to get past Daryl. From where Rick was, he could see that Shane had been completely over-ambitious. Shane's front wheel banged into the side of Daryl's bike, pushing him off the track completely, and then Daryl's bike was skidding across the grass with Daryl hanging on for dear life, before his bike landed on its side against the barrier. Shane had slowed down, his front tyre ruined, and Rick resisted the temptation to look across at where Daryl was lying on the ground, knowing that he had to take this chance to win.

He passed Shane easily, scarcely believing his damn good fortune as he began the last lap of the race as leader. The win felt hollow.

His crew were cheering as he got off his bike and made his way to the podium. He asked his chief mechanic how Daryl was, but he just shrugged.

"He's been taken to the medical centre, Rick, but he was up and walking. Sure he'll be fine. You _won_. Be happy!"

Rick didn't spray champagne on the podium.

*

Daryl was fucking going to _kill_ Shane fucking Walsh.

He'd sat in the medical centre, leg shaking up and down with impatience as he'd waited for them to examine his left wrist. He'd banged it up good when that prick had run him off the track, but he'd suffered plenty worse injuries from his daddy. They'd put a wrist support on him that he planned to take off the second he was away from the track.

Michonne had come with him, her eyes wide with worry.

"'M fine, Michonne," he'd said. "Asshole lost me a sure win. That hurts more than my damn wrist does."

"It hurts me too," she nodded. "But you being unharmed is more important. We'll make the points up, okay? You know I'm with you all the way."

"I know," Daryl thanked her. "Want to speak to the doc about all the dumb wrist exercises I'll have to do so I don't have to? Just want to get back to the motorhome and get out of my leathers."

"Sure," Michonne smiled, and Daryl felt guilty for being underhand, but she didn't need to see what he was going to do.

He walked quickly to the Paddock. He knew that Walsh would be hanging around there like a bad smell, like he always was. Either charming the media or trying to fuck one of the grid girls. Whatever.

Daryl spotted him outside the Team Greene motorhome, deep in conversation with Grimes. Yeah, Grimes was an issue in itself, lucking into that win today 'cause his best buddy had acted like a dangerous prick at Turn 13.

Daryl briefly contemplated calling Shane's name, but why give him a warning? He strode over purposefully and landed a punch right on his jaw. Shane staggered backwards, putting a hand up to his face, but almost immediately his fingers were covered in blood from the busted lip Daryl had given him.

Daryl reached out and grabbed the neck of Shane's t-shirt, his brain thumping with the rush of blood to the head he'd given himself. His vision was blurred with the anger he felt, and he slammed Shane against the side of the motorhome, about to headbutt him, when arms came around his waist, and then he was being wrenched away.

"Daryl, be cool. Be cool, okay? Don't throw everything away."

Even if Rick hadn't spoken, Daryl would have known it was his hands around him. Rick was pressed against his back, breathing heavily in his ear. Daryl felt dizzy from anger and violence and the fact that Rick's body was so close to his.

He heard the noise of someone running in his direction, and turned to see Michonne, a furious expression on her face.

"Motorhome, now," she hissed, glaring angrily at Daryl.

He trudged behind her like a scolded boy as they went inside. She ordered him to sit, and stood screaming at him, hands on hips.

"One banged up wrist not good enough for you, you moron? I mean, why not go full Tyson-Holyfield and bite off his ear while you're at it?"

Daryl stifled a laugh.

"He deserved it."

"Daryl... you can't behave like that. They could penalise the team, ban you, dock you some points..."

Daryl suddenly felt terrible. Not for punching that prick, but for causing Michonne trouble when she'd done everything for him. He gave her a light punch on her upper arm. It was as close as he would come to giving her a full blown verbal apology.

"It's a long season, Daryl," she shook her head. "And I told you, Sanctuary Racing ride dirty. You have to not let your temper get the better of you, because this is going to happen again. And I don't need to tell you that it's stupid to let your emotions about Shane spill out onto the racetrack."

"He fuckin' pushed me off the fuckin' TRACK!" Daryl exclaimed. "Weren't nothin' to do with anythin' about him or Rick or whatever yer tryin' to fuckin' imply. Okay?"

Michonne raised an eyebrow.

"Okay."

*

Michonne had told Rick which floor Daryl's hotel room was on. Rick left the track early to beat Daryl there, and was currently sitting on the carpeted floor, waiting. He didn't feel elated about the win he hadn't deserved; he just wanted to make sure Daryl was okay. He'd helped Shane clean the blood off his face, and he'd be a bit sore for a few days, but the cut on his lip had looked worse than it really was.

Rick heard the elevator doors at the end of the corridor open, and he stood up, hoping that it was Daryl. It was. Rick watched from the other end as Daryl walked quickly to the door to his room. As Daryl was about to put the key into the door, Rick approached him.

"Hey."

"Mmm?" Daryl turned around, his eyes focused on the ground and his face sullen.

"You were right, to be angry at Shane. He deserved it. That move he pulled on you was wrong."

Daryl's eyes flicked upwards and met Rick's shyly.

"Was stupid, probably. Don't regret it, but..."

Rick gave a half-smile.

"Maybe a _bit_ stupid."

Daryl sucked in his cheeks as if to stop himself from smiling. Rick's heart thudded in his chest; this was the closest they had come to being amiable in months. Daryl turned to face him properly, giving Rick a nod.

"Shane's not going to do anything about what happened," Rick told him. "I told him that he should tell the team not to report you, although I hear that Negan's baying for your blood right now. So if you're worried about being docked points or being banned or whatever..."

"'M not, but thanks."

"How's your wrist?" Rick asked.

Daryl held up his left arm, showing off the bandage.

"Not as sore as my right woulda been if I'd given Walsh the proper hidin' I wanted to."

Rick placed a hand on Daryl's forearm. Daryl flinched, didn't pull away, but his expression suddenly became bitter.

"Worked out well for ya, didn't it Rick," he sneered. "Me an' Walsh tusslin' like that. You just kept goin' and got the win. So save yer sympathy and _'ya did the right thing'_ bullshit."

Rick took a step forward and Daryl moved with him, backing against the wall. Rick could hear both of their breathing; smell coffee from Daryl's breath. Daryl's chest was rising and falling, the tension electric and almost unbearable.

"I remember," Rick breathed, his mouth only milimetres from Daryl's. "I remember this hotel, a few years back. Staring out at palm trees with your hands on me. Remember how you made me feel, how you..." He gave a small sigh.

Daryl's mouth parted. Rick felt the heat emanating from his body, and God, he'd almost forgotten how hot Daryl had always felt. He hadn't taken chances today in the race, but he took one now, reaching out and cupping the side of Daryl's face in his hand. He could feel Daryl's lips against the inside of his thumb, how they were slightly parted. He pressed his palm in closer, closing his eyes as Daryl's tongue poked against it. The wet feeling went straight to his groin, and his legs began to shake.

"I miss it," Rick gasped. "I miss how you make me feel."

Something in Daryl broke, and he pulled away.

"Ya talk to yer grid girl like that, Rick?" he said in a low voice. Rick was rendered speechless as Daryl turned around, unlocked his door and walked inside, slamming it behind him.

*

A week later, Rick was lying on the sofa and reading the new issue of US Superbike Monthly. He flicked to the letters page; he liked to read what fans had to say. He knew he had a big fanbase, and he couldn't pretend it wasn't flattering.

_What's the big deal with the altercation between Daryl Dixon and Shane Walsh? Surely that just shows the passion Dixon has – he's a born racer and I would sooner see him throw a punch than be a robot who just says what the sponsors want him to. It's bad enough that the Championship leader Rick Grimes doesn't show any personality, we don't want to see his title rival be the same. Bring on more fist fights and arguments, I say! Just like in Rick's dad's day. That is just this one man's opinion. **B. Stookey, Georgia.**_

Rick rolled up the magazine and threw it across the lounge. Anything Daryl did – _anything_ – they all loved him anyway. And the press weren't helping; just like he and Daryl had joked all those years ago, the media were stirring up the title fight, calling it _The War of The Python and the Black Cat_. Rick didn't want to be reduced to just a nickname, or to be seen as Daryl's mortal enemy, but he was getting really fucking sick of being portrayed as dull, or for playing it safe, when he was busting his ass out there just as much as Daryl was.

He needed to change.

*

Rick arrived in Detroit on what felt like the muggiest day of the year. Thursdays at the racetrack were for giving interviews and facing the press, and the hot sun beat down on him as he stood outside the motorhome with a dozen dictaphones shoved into his face.

He pulled his green baseball cap over his eyes, regretting leaving his sunglasses back at the hotel. He felt sweaty and irritable, and would rather be having lunch with his mechanics, or working out. He was only 5 points ahead of Daryl in the Championship and he knew all the questions would be about that. He felt antsy; that scarily familiar feeling of dread and of losing control. He was glad his dad had come to the race with him this weekend.

"It's close in the title race," the first journalist began. "You think Dixon will stick it out this time?"

"What do you mean?" Rick rubbed his chin pensively.

"Well, after the 1995 Supersport finale where you two crashed, he walked away from the sport until he agreed to come back with Team Katana. Is it fair to say that he's a bit of a hot head and he could do the same again?"

Rick couldn't help giving a surprised laugh.

"I can't speak for Daryl, what he does on and off track is his business. I mean, to say he's a hot head is..."

"Justified? I mean, given his behaviour with Shane Walsh in LA," the journalist laughed.

"Um... not what I said, but..." Rick paused, trying to choose his words carefully. "Perhaps he could channel his passion and will to win a little differently."

*

Daryl got more nervous about attending pre-race press conferences than he did about the actual races. It was just him at a table, facing dozens of photographers and reporters. The flash of cameras always gave him a headache, and he hated being stared at by so many people.

Same as the advert Michonne was making him do for one of the team's sponsors. After this race he was flying to New York to pretend to be drinking some soda or something. He felt like he was selling his soul – he'd never had money, never been used to having money, and never really wanted it anyway. But now, he was starting to _get_ some. He'd never even been in a bank or had a checking account before, but now he had a salary from the team going in every month. Not that he spent much of it. A few beers here and there, food and toys for Jack, and the odd CD was all he indulged in, asides from the money he would throw Michonne every week for bills and groceries.

Getting used to fame had been easier than getting used to having money.

But man, he'd give most of it up if it meant not having to sit here like a performing monkey answering questions from a load of assholes with notepads and pens.

"What do you think of the reports that Rick Grimes has described you as a 'hot head'?" The first one asked. "Do you have anything in response to that?"

Daryl shrugged.

"Haven't heard anything about it."

He hadn't, and he didn't give a shit if Rick had said that. Was true, anyway. He was a Dixon, after all. If it weren't for a hot head, he'd have no head at all.

"Well that's what's being said, Daryl. Do you think he's trying to get into your head?"

"Nope."

A camera flashed, and Daryl squinted, resolving to get some sunglasses.

"If he thinks that's a weakness of yours, what do you think Rick's main weakness is?"

Daryl sat back in his chair and threw his hands up.

"Ain't gonna start the war of words you fuckin' pricks want between us."

"But you have to admit, it's a great story," another journalist said, her voice thick with smug glee. "Moving to the Grimes ranch when you were in your early teens, racing for Richard Grimes' junior team, then being teammates with Rick in Supersport. Now you're both in Superbikes and you don't seem to speak anymore, and..."

"And _what_?" Daryl snapped.

He stood up.

"This shit is over."

*

On race day, Daryl channelled the anger he felt about the press conference and the shame of letting Rick get so close back in LA. He was untouchable, winning by almost 6 seconds.

_The Python shoots blanks as the luckiest Black Cat wins in Detroit_ was the sports headline in the newspaper the next morning. Daryl was somewhat glad that Princess Di's death was taking up all of the coverage instead. He threw the paper into the bin as he made his way to the gate for his flight to New York. He passed Shane on the way there, he was in a corner sucking the face off some girl, not the skinny one he was normally with, a different one. Daryl didn't give him a second glance.

The next few hours were a blur. Someone met him at the gate, and then he was driven straight from the airport to a studio somewhere in SoHo. Daryl had never felt more out of place, in that fancy loft with its white decor and exposed brick walls. He felt uncomfortable as fuck, and exhausted and starving to boot. The day after the race was for chilling out at home with Jack, and sleeping for hours to let his mind and his muscles recover.

Instead, he was standing in front of a white backdrop in his race leathers, holding up a bottle of soda. He narrowed his eyes, dazzled by the bright room.

"Line!" the director shouted.

Daryl froze. He nervously glanced over at the director's assistant, who mouthed the words at him. Daryl gave a nod of thanks.

" _Crossbow Cola. It hits the spot_."

"You're meant to take a drink right after, Daryl."

Daryl took a sip. It was horrible.

The director shook her head.

"No, no. Line, then a long swig. I mean, try to look like you're enjoying it?"

By Take 15, Daryl was just about ready to swing for someone, not to mention he was already on his third bottle of cola. Nothing he did was right – he spoke too quickly, or quietly, or his accent was too thick, or he needed to clear his throat. He was irritable and had the beginnings of a headache under the lights. The assistant, a guy with long hair and a beard, handed him his fourth bottle. Daryl held a hand up in refusal.

"Can't drink anymore of this crap," he spat.

"Just a few more takes," the director promised. "That last time was almost perfect."

Daryl shook his head.

"Throw a few shots of Jack into this piss and I'll manage."

The director turned to her assistant.

"Paul, get some JD for Daryl, please."

The assitant, Paul, came back in only 20 minutes with a new bottle of Jack. He took the cola from Daryl, drank half the bottle, filled it up to the brim with bourbon, and handed it back.

Daryl raised an eyebrow and couldn't help but smile.

"Good service. Should do this shit like some fuckin' celeb more often."

"Just my job," Paul smiled.

Daryl took a glug. Still tasted like shit, but now when he swallowed, there was that pleasant burn that he loved.

"From the top!" the director shouted.

Daryl turned to the camera and smiled.

" _Crossbow Cola. It hits the spot._ "

He took a long swig.

"That was great, Daryl. One more, just like that."

" _Crossbow Cola. It hits the spot_."

Three more swigs.

"Again!"

" _Crossbow Cola. It hits the spot_."

Daryl finished the bottle.

"Get Daryl another bottle of cola, Paul!"

"'S okay," Daryl said. "Just fill it up with Jack, it's the same color."

Paul carefully poured the bourbon into the glass bottle in Daryl's outstretched hand. Daryl drank half of it.

"Go again, Daryl."

" _Crossbow Cola. It hits the spot_."

Swig.

"Suck your cheekbones in a bit more when you drink, the girls will lose their panties. GO."

" _Crossbow Cola. It hits the spot_."

Swig.

"Last one, I promise. Do it just like that, but narrow those eyes of yours a little. Look _dangerous_."

" _Crossbow Cola. It hits the spot_."

Swig.

"Perfect. There's a shower and some food out back. Paul, get Daryl some sandwiches, okay?"

Daryl followed Paul into a side room. He ducked behind the changing screen and pulled off his leathers, feeling pleasantly buzzed from drinking. He heard footsteps and quickly pulled on a black vest and jeans. Rick was the only person who'd ever seen the scars on his back, and that wasn't going to change.

"You decent, Daryl?"

"Yuh-huh."

Paul popped his head around the changing screen, the bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand.

"Brought you some fresh towels, and there's sandwiches there too – BLT, meatball sub..."

"Maybe later," Daryl replied. "Just give me that bottle for now."

Paul obliged, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

"I had no idea who you were, you know. Still don't."

"Don't give a shit if you know who I am or not."

"Yeah, I can tell. But – and go off on me if you want – I feel like we might have similar... interests."

"Oh yeah? Like what."

Paul smirked, his pale green eyes alight. Daryl's brow furrowed and he clenched his fists, ready to knock this guy flat on his ass. But Paul stared and stared, unapologetically looking Daryl's body up and down.

"You tell me," Paul shrugged. "Anyway, is there anything else I can get you, or am I okay to go?"

Daryl licked his lips and took a gulp of Jack. He wasn't shitfaced, but he was more than halfway there. Enough to feel the need for something he had been denied for so fucking long.

He backed himself against the wall, an open invitation. And then Paul was pressed against him, lightning fast, his mouth all over Daryl's neck, collarbones and then mouth. Daryl leant his head back and closed his eyes. He pushed back into the kiss, expecting the kind of snarling anger and hunger that he and Rick had had between them, but didn't get it. Paul's mouth was soft and sweet, kissing Daryl languidly and sliding his tongue into his mouth slowly. He a was a good kisser, a _great_ kisser. But when Daryl wrapped a hand around the back of Paul's head, he found long, straight hair, not the wiry curls that he was used to tangling his fingers in.

Rick was with that grid girl, or at least had been. So why the fuck did Daryl feel like he was betraying him? And Paul... his skin was smoother, his body slighter and less hairy. He didn't taste earthy like Rick did, or have a body that was damn near almost equal to Daryl's in strength.

Paul was fiddling with the button on Daryl's jeans now, but Daryl smacked his hand away.

"Ain't nothin' happenin' down there, so don't waste yer time."

Paul raised an eyebrow and gave a wry smile.

"That's okay. I was just up for some fun, it's fine if you're not."

Daryl looked down shyly.

"It ain't you. Just... not feelin' it." He paused. "Your eyes ain't blue."

Paul nodded in realisation.

"Ah, I get it. Didn't figure you'd be the type to just... you know... with some random guy."

"Tell anyone about this an' I'll kill ya," Daryl warned, only half-joking.

Paul smiled.

"Trust me, Daryl. I have no-one to tell who knows who the hell you are, or cares. Can I at least tell them I kissed some guy with the best shoulders I've ever seen?"

He left, leaving Daryl alone with the rest of the Jack Daniels. He took a sip, then another. The kiss had ignited something in Daryl. Something that Rick had started within him long ago and never finished.

*

Rick tried to tell himself that the Crossbow Cola billboards around the Indianapolis track weren't distracting. But at almost every corner, there was Daryl's face, looking handsomely surly. Rick was lying in 4th place, with Daryl far off in the distance; on his way to winning his second race in a row.

The season was mentally and physically draining Rick. He would win one race, and take the lead in the Championship, then at the next race Daryl would do the same. But now Daryl was going to win today and increase his lead to 6 points.

There were only 4 races left.

As Rick left the garage after the race, he saw little kids in purple Katana baseball caps, waving Daryl Dixon flags and drinking free cans of that damn Crossbow Cola. Then someone was tugging at his sleeve, and Rick saw a small boy in a Rick Grimes t-shirt. Rick plastered on a fake smile and bent down to speak to him. The little boy was crying because his hero hadn't won, and Rick's heart broke for him. He gave him a hug, signing his race programme, and promised him he would win the next race. The boy gulped, wiping his tears away and giving a watery smile. Rick felt better as he watched the kid walk away. It had felt good, cheering him up like that.

He turned when he heard the scrape of footsteps behind him, expecting to find another fan. Instead, he saw Negan, the owner of the Sanctuary team that Shane raced for. He was an imposing figure in biker boots and tight white t-shirt. Rick hadn't had many dealings with him – mostly because he didn't want to. Guy seemed like a dick.

"Can we have a chat, Rick?" he leered.

Rick nodded. Negan followed him back into the garage and crossed his arms.

"You're going to let Dixon run away with this Championship if you're not careful."

"Excuse me?" Rick's mouth was agape.

"Let me tell you something, kid," Negan drawled. "And it's for your own good so I want you to listen. You're too _nice_ , and nice in this sport don't get you _shit_. Oh, it was all fun and games when you were dicking around in Supersport, but you're in Superbike now, Rick. Time to man up, you're with the big boys now."

"Well with all due respect, sir, I'm not in your team, so I don't see why you care."

"Because I want the best in my team, Rick. And one day I might want _you_ , if you were a little tougher, a little more ruthless. I hire people who would ride over the top of their grandma if they thought they would win, that's the kind of mentality that makes you _great_. Don't you want to be great? Your daddy sure was."

"I'm not my daddy."

Negan's smile faded and he stared at Rick.

"You got his ruthlessness, though. I can see it. Hell, I can almost _smell_ it. It's right _here_."

He prodded Rick between the eyes. Rick didn't flinch. He wouldn't let this asshole intimidate him. Negan leant back, smiling that shit-eating grin of his.

"See? Cold as ice."

*

"Heard some news while you were out there," Michonne said, sitting down in the motorhome to go through the race with Daryl.

Daryl leant over the sink, splashing water over his face. This New Orleans humidity had him sweating like a bitch. Fucking clutch was slipping again, and 4th was the best he could manage today. And Grimes, damn him, he'd gone and won. Coming into the race, Daryl had been 6 points ahead; now he was 6 points _behind_. Damn it to hell.

"Unless the news is you getting the clutch sorted out, man, I don't give a shit."

He opened the fridge door and slammed it again angrily.

"Ain't there no food?"

Michonne reached into her bag and threw him an apple. Daryl frowned, and sat down, biting into it obnoxiously loudly.

"So?" he began. "What's the news?"

"You know Glenn, right?" Michonne said.

Daryl nodded. Glenn had ridden for Rick's dad's team a few years back. Nice kid. Korean, if Daryl remembered correctly.

"What about him?"

Michonne handed Daryl a white page. It was a press release with the Sanctuary Racing logo at the top. Daryl hated that barbed wire logo.

"He's racing for Sanctuary in Houston," she explained. "Negan's arranged a wild card entry for him. Pretty crazy, huh?"

Daryl nodded.

"He ain't ready. Kid ain't even been in Supersport yet never mind riding a Superbike."

"I know," Michonne replied, somewhat sadly. "I certainly wouldn't hire him. Negan's asking for trouble with this – I'd be worried about you being on the track around someone so inexperienced too. You're in a championship fight and some rookie could be in the way? Never in a million years..."

Daryl shrugged.

"Well, ya never know."

He threw his apple core into the trash.

"Guess we better go through the race, huh?" he scowled, and Michonne shot him an indignant look.

"Trust me, I don't want to be sitting here looking at your face, either, Daryl. I'd rather be out listening to some good live music with a chilled vodka in my hand, but here we are."

Daryl slapped her on the arm.

"Then lets get this over with and do that."

*

There had been a bar. Two bars. Wait... maybe three? The last one had been the kicker; red-lit and shadowy, a bar where people who didn't want to be seen or recognised went. Maybe that's why Daryl had gravitated there. Over shots, he'd lied after a few _Aren't you that guy...?_ kind of questions, and managed to get rid of a few slightly more than amorous ladies.

Now he was face down on the bed, scared to open his eyes let alone move his arm to turn off the alarm clock. To add insult to injury, the telephone on the nightstand began to ring.

"Heard you were all kinds of fucked up last night. Thanks for ditching me, by the way."

Michonne. Fuck. Last he'd seen, she was dancing with some guy to an Etta James song, pressed close to him and laughing; the ice cubes in her drink clinking. Daryl had left the bar they'd been in, and wandered off alone for somewhere where he'd have more solitude.

"Heard from who?" he croaked.

"Some mechanics from Team Greene. Guess they saw you stagger out of the bar and to wherever the hell you went last night."

A wave of nausea hit Daryl. Of all the teams... Now Grimes would hear about it, no doubt. _Fucking Dixon, off drinking after a race. On his own, dive bars, cheap bourbon, surprised he didn't get himself into a fight._ Yeah, Daryl knew what they'd all be thinking.

Michonne sounded husky and hungover too, to be fair. But hell, Michonne was invincible.

"I know it was my idea to go out last night, Daryl, but..."

"But what?" Daryl croaked. Fuck, he needed water. Scrap that, he needed another drink, enough to take the edge off.

"We're fighting a Championship here. I know you – and I – really needed to let off steam yesterday, but do me one thing, just lay off it until all of this is over, okay?"

"Okay, boss."

"Our flight back to Atlanta is in 3 hours. You better be at reception in 45 minutes or I'll come up there and pour water over you."

Daryl made to slam the receiver down, but his aim was off and it fell onto the floor, clinking against something as it did so. Daryl leant over the bed to see a half-full bottle of Bud beside the bed. He felt a wave of self-revulsion as he picked it up and took a swig.

*

Rick had gotten pole position, and now he was leading the race. Houston was going well for him; he had a lead of 6 points in the Championship, and with Daryl running in second, Rick mentally calculated that if they both stayed in these positions, he could have an 11 point lead in an hour's time, with 2 races to go.

The whole weekend had been a breeze. His bike felt smooth and responsive beneath him, and Negan's words, however unwanted they had been, had played at the back of his mind. He'd taken no prisoners; overtaking backmarkers ruthlessly and refusing to give any interviews, using the excuse that he was too focused on the title race.

Those backmarkers, though. The slower guys who could fall a lap behind, meaning the leaders like Rick and Daryl would have to get past them again during the race. And that kid Glenn, fuck, he'd been lagging behind the whole race, getting in everyone's way, out of his depth and too damn slow. He was being lapped by everyone else, but was too inexperienced to know when to let people past. He was slow, and nervous, and Rick didn't like racing against people like that.

With a few laps to go, Rick exited Turn 10, and found a mess, a fucking MESS. There was a bike lying in the middle of the track, a red one, maybe one of Negan's, and the rider was down too, prone on the ground, but he was right in the middle, bikes trying and failing to avoid him on either side, and Rick had nowhere to go, he could see that two other bikes had been in the same situation as him, nowhere else to go but right over the other bike, right over the rider, Rick almost vomited inside his helmet at the feeling of crushed metal and carbon fibre and human being under his wheels as he drove straight through the scene of horror, but his first thought was of the possible lost win - and his second of relief that it wasn't Daryl.

_His first thought was of the possible lost win_. He was a fucking win-at-all-costs bastard. _Cold as ice_ , that's what Negan had said.

Rick kept going, but the impact had fucked up his bike pretty bad, and he was helpless to defend his position as first Daryl, then 3 other bikes rode past him easily. The race went on for another lap before the marshals started waving red flags, ending the race because of the accident. Rick was 5th, but Daryl had won. Rick knew that Daryl wouldn't be happy about winning under those kind of circumstances, but 25 points was 25 points.

All interviews after the race were cancelled, and Rick left the track for the hotel as soon as the medics cleared him to go. His face was ashen, just like everyone else's was. Tomorrow he would have to speak to track officials and God knows who else, to give his account of what had happened to Glenn.

He encountered Michonne in the corridor, who grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze.

"It's stupid of me to ask if you're okay," she soothed. "Because of course you're not, but if you need to talk..."

"I just need to get to my room and have a shower," Rick replied, knowing that Michonne could see his wild-eyed expression and pale face.

"I saw the whole thing," Michonne told him, her voice trembling. "It wasn't you, Rick. He was gone already... I mean, there were 2 other bikes before you..."

"I know," Rick nodded. "Hershel told me. Don't make what I saw, or did, any damn easier."

Michonne gave his hand another squeeze before releasing it.

"If you need to talk, I'm in 302." She paused. "Daryl's in 311."

Rick gave a nod of thanks. Inside his room, he put his hands over his face and allowed himself to be wracked with sobs. His whole body shook as he remembered the feeling of his bike riding over the top of another person. The team said that they could arrange for him to speak to someone about it, but Rick couldn't face it just yet. Thoughts of the lost win and the 8 point lead that Daryl now had over him crept into his brain, and he felt overwhelmed by the pressure he felt at trying to win. Then he felt guilt about even caring about something so trivial as sport compared to the death of a fellow competitor. He lay back down on the bed, reluctantly answering when the telephone began to ring.

"You okay, son?"

"I... no Dad, I don't think so."

"Want me to meet you at the airport tomorrow when you land?"

"No," Rick shook his head. "I'll see you when I get home."

Rick could hear the concern and worry in his dad's voice as he spoke. Glenn had ridden for Richard's team when he was only starting out, but his dad was too stoic a man to ever admit what he was really feeling.

"It's hard, Rick. It happened more in my day than it does now, and you never get used to it. It's the shit side of our sport, all the death. I'd like to be able to tell you it won't ever happen again, but I can't."

Rick put a hand across his eyes as he tried to keep the tears from out of his voice.

"I know. But what I saw... every time I close my eyes, I..."

"Try to at least get some sleep, Rick. Being tired won't help you none. I'll see you at home tomorrow, okay?"

Rick hung up, then immediately lifted up the receiver again to call the reception desk. The woman's voice on the other end was annoyingly chirpy and shrill.

"How can I help you?"

Rick stammered.

"Um... could you put me through to room 311 please?"

"One moment, sir."

Rick waited, and waited, imagining a gruff voice answering. Maybe when it did, he and Daryl could talk properly for the first time in months and months. If anything was going to make it happen, surely today of all days...

"Sorry sir, the customer in that room has advised that he doesn't wish to speak to anyone. Can I help you with anything else?"

Rick hung up. His chest felt tight, like it sometimes did. He tried to reach over for his glass of water, but when he looked down at his hand, he saw it was trembling uncontrollably. He attempted to stand up, but was too dizzy. He needed to talk to someone... he needed to talk to Daryl. But Daryl wouldn't take any calls. Had he known that it was Rick who had asked to be put through to his room? Daryl wasn't stupid; he had to have had a damn good idea.

Rick felt the beginning of resentment towards Daryl for taking the win, the lead, the plaudits and the fans. Everything that Rick had been born for was being snatched away from him by Daryl. And now he wouldn't speak to him at all? On the worst day of their racing careers? Rick closed his eyes and focused on his breathing until he began to feel calmer.

Fuck Daryl Dixon.

*

Daryl sat on the balcony and lit his 6th cigarette in a row. He hadn't known Glenn very well, but he'd been a nice kid. And no-one deserved to go like that. Fuckin' journalists had found out his room number, so he'd had to tell the girl at reception not to put any calls through to him.

And Rick, man, that had been _rough_. Daryl guessed he'd probably be in Shane's room, or that grid girl's. And his dad would have called him too, for sure. Best just to leave him alone, he didn't need anyone bothering him tonight. Rick was like him, he didn't talk too much, not about tragic shit like that anyway.

Daryl flicked his cigarette butt off the balcony, stood up and went into his room. He gave a sigh as he looked at the telephone. Probably a mistake, but...

"Hey."

"Can I help you, sir?"

"Um, yeah. Can I get a bottle of Jack through room service?"

*

_"Well what a fantastic race we saw here in Savannah today. That was some win for Rick Grimes!"_

_"Sure was, Dale. Dixon tried everything he could, but second was all he was ever going to get today. Grimes was doing that for the memory of Glenn Rhee, wasn't he?"_

_"Without a doubt, Jim. And by my calculations, that's slashed Dixon's lead to only 3 points. That's right, ladies and gentlemen – 3 points is all that's in it with one race to go."_

_"Exciting stuff, Dale. The question is - will we see a repeat of that famous 1995 World Supersport finale, when the same two guys crashed and Grimes ended up as Champion?"_

_"Time will tell, Jim. Make sure you tune in in two weeks' time folks, for the finale in Atlanta. The Python and the Black Cat fighting to become the 1997 US Superbike Champion. Hold tight people, this is going to be a big one. We'll see you then. Goodnight!"_

Rick woke up in his own bed the morning after the Savannah race, glad that he'd caught the red-eye back home. He'd had enough of the loneliness of hotel rooms for the year, and was glad to be at home. He stared at the peeling wallpaper and piles of laundry sitting on what had been the spare bed, and resolved to make his room more adult during the coming off-season.

"Rick!"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"Someone here to see you."

Rick pulled on his sweatpants and t-shirt, making his bed as best he could.

"Send them up. Thanks Dad."

There were soft footsteps, and then Lori was standing in the doorway, eyes smudged with black eye make-up, and bottom lip quivering.

"Shane's cheating on me," was all she managed to say before sitting down beside Rick on the bed.

"Who with?"

She wiped a tear from the side of her eye.

" _Everyone_."

She suddenly looked very small and young. Rick gave her a hug, feeling awkward, but she buried herself into his embrace. When she pulled away, she'd left mascara marks on his white t-shirt.

"Sorry," she said, sniffing. "I don't know why I'm crying. Things weren't working out anyway, we just want different things I guess."

"Like what?" Rick asked. He was glad she had stopped crying – he had absolutely no clue how to deal with emotional women. He handed her a tissue and she wiped the make-up from her eyes. Rick would never dare say, but she looked a hell of a lot better without it.

"I dunno," she looked bashful. "I'm getting a bit tired of all of it. The races, the posing. I know that I'm meant to aspire to be a career woman, but lately I think I'd just like to settle down. Do the marriage and kids thing. I think it'd be nice, you know?"

"I know what you mean." Rick nodded. He felt tired, too.

"Just to be able to sit down for dinner every night as a family. I think it could make me happy. Maybe I'm awful old-fashioned."

"Not at all," Rick shook his head. "It sounds comforting."

Rick thought about how much fuller the ranch had felt back when his mom had been alive. She had always made them eat dinner as a family when his dad hadn't been away racing, and she would cook pies and stews for them all. When she was gone, he and his dad had tried to emulate that, but it had never been the same again. Then when Daryl had moved in, there were times that the kitchen had felt more homely again, and there was laughter around the dinner table once more. Rick missed that feeling.

"Well Shane doesn't want any of that. He doesn't want _me_." Lori started to sob again, and Rick put an arm around her shoulder. He felt her press herself against him.

"I wish he was more like you," she said quietly, burying her face in Rick's neck.

Rick froze. He could feel her damp eyelashes against his skin. He'd never been in a situation like this. She felt petite, delicate against him; and Rick was surprised to feel his heart start to beat a little faster. It felt nice, to act protectively like this. He rubbed a hand up and down her arm.

"You shouldn't say that Lori. Shane's my friend."

Rick was going to say _best friend_ , but even now there was something in his mind that still had that spot reserved for Daryl. He quickly pushed him out of his mind.

"I do, though," she whispered, and Rick felt her lips give his neck a small kiss. "Can't you tell? I've felt like this for ages..."

Her mouth slid upwards towards Rick's bottom lip, and she grabbed onto the collar of his shirt. Rick put a hand around her wrist.

" _Stop_. Lori."

She pulled away, pouting slightly. Rick could tell that 'no' wasn't a word Lori was used to. He had to admit to himself, though – she looked cute with her wide eyes and button nose, and her hair had an auburn tinge that Rick's mom had had too.

"Do you mean that?" she whispered, and started kissing him again. Rick kept his eyes shut as he responded, slowly at first until he gained more confidence. The lack of stubble against his cheek was unfamilar but not unpleasant, and she smelled good. He felt scared to kiss her anything else but gently, so used to practically devouring Daryl.

"Mmm, your lips are so soft," Lori breathed. Rick shut his eyes and paused.

_"I might as well be kissin' a girl, with those lips of yours, Rick."_

Rick mentally told Daryl's voice in his head to shut up. When Lori moved to kiss him again, he let her.

*

Even Daryl was shocked at how easily he'd gotten pole position for the last race. Now, he was in the motorhome before going onto the grid, where either he or Rick would become the US Superbike World Champion for the first time. Music – coffee – cigarette had become his ritual over the course of the season, and today was no different, no matter how much Michonne scolded him.

He wanted this. Holy _fuck_ , he wanted it. He didn't just want to win today, he wanted to humiliate everyone else. Even Grimes. _Especially_ Grimes.

Half an hour later, Daryl was sitting on the grid, helmet on, waiting for the flag to be waved. Grimes had come to shake his hand, but if he'd looked Daryl in the eye, Daryl didn't know. He'd stared down at his feet. He'd snatched his hand away too; not because he didn't want the physical contact, but because just the touch of Rick's palm against his had been too much to bear.

Every forecast had been for rain. Daryl could smell that it was 20, 25 minutes away, and felt confident it'd be a small shower - and he was normally right.

He heard the track commentator's voice booming over the tannoy, and it made the bile suddenly rise up in his stomach. He swallowed hard, flexing his fingers inside his gloves, and thinking about the damn clutch problems he'd had all season.

He stared up at the five starting lights, his wrist poised to twist the throttle.

The first red light went out. Then the second, third, fourth, fif...

Daryl shot forward and the race was GO.

Immediately his nerves disappeared. He felt at one with the bike, he didn't know if he was riding it, or if it was merely making him a passenger. He glided around the corners of this track he loved so much, leaning over as he did so, so far that his knee would skim along the ground. He barely noticed when the rain started, bar seeing Shane Walsh skidding across the grass as he came up to lap him. He had no idea how much of a lead he had, but when he managed to snatch a look behind, the only other rider he could see was Grimes; he and Rick miles in front of the rest, like it had always been.

With only a few laps left, Daryl became vaguely aware of people standing up in the grandstands, waving purple and grey Katana flags. His eyes began to sting as he realised that this was happening. Actually fucking happening. Never done a good thing in his life, but he was about to do _this_. And Michonne, he was doing this for her as much as he was doing it for himself, and for Merle, and for all the generations of Dixons who had never done _shit_.

He crossed the line as winner, taking his hands off the bike and holding them above his head, fists clenched in victory. Fans streamed onto the track in front of him on his slowing down lap, applauding him. One handed him a Katana flag and he held it aloft as he rode a victory lap. People slapped him on the back, marshals tried to grab and shake his hand, and fans jumped up and down. Some held a banner with his face on it; others (mostly females) wore black cat ears. He'd never experienced anything like it, and he felt his bottom lip quivering.

When he pulled into Parc Ferme, Daryl barely had time to take off his helmet before all of his mechanics piled on top of him, pouring entire bottles of champagne over his head and planting sloppy kisses onto his cheeks. Daryl wriggled out of the scrum, rubbing the alcohol from his eyes, and looking around for the one person he wanted to celebrate with. She was hanging back from the rest of the team, wearing a Daryl Dixon t-shirt that was soaked in sweat, tears, and champagne.

Daryl strode towards Michonne, lifted her up and swung her around. She burst into happy laughter as he eventually put her back down, enveloping him in a tight hug.

"You're the US Superbike Champion!" she shrieked. "Oh thank you, thank you, thank you."

"Was all for you, 'Chonne," Daryl shouted, his voice trembling. "All for you."

Life hadn't been kind to Daryl, and he'd lost almost everyone that had ever meant anything to him, but right this moment? He finally felt like something, instead of _nothing_.

*

Rick sat at the back of the garage, head in his hands, completely destroyed. The amount of folks he had let down. His mechanics, Hershel, the fans, his dad...

Hershel sat down beside him and patted his shoulder in his usual paternal way.

"I'm sorry, Hershel," Rick gasped, dejection in his voice.

"You've nothing to be sorry for, Rick," Hershel smiled. "You had a great season, and that's racing. We'll get Katana next year."

"Just couldn't get past Daryl," Rick said, shaking his head. "Once he got such a good start, he was _gone_. Hell, did you _see_ it? Almost thought he'd jumped the start, he got away so well."

Hershel rubbed his chin.

"Huh, thought he jumped the start, do you? The thought crossed my mind too when I saw it. But when the stewards did nothing and the race kept going, I figured..."

He paused, his brow furrowed in thought.

" _No_ , Hershel," Rick said firmly, figuring out what his boss was thinking.

"We have to at least get the stewards to have a look at the footage."

"No. It's over. You know as well as I do that a jump start carries a 20 second penalty..."

Hershel shrugged.

"...And Dixon won by 10 seconds. I know. But Rick - won't you always wonder if he jumped the start?"

*

"Bastard! Fucking BASTARD."

Daryl's fist went through the wall of the hotel room as Michonne told him the news. He turned around to face her, seeing the look of utter disappointment on her face. She sat down onto the bed and rested her head in her hands.

"Just like that, huh?"

Michonne nodded ruefully.

"Just like that."

"What the fuck, Michonne? They can just take the title away from me?"

"They can," she shrugged. "They said you jumped the start."

Daryl put his hands on his head as Michonne told him everything. Team Greene had lodged a complaint against Katana, telling the stewards that they suspected Daryl had jumped the start. They had reviewed footage of his bike from several angles, and a majority had said he'd launched off the line just a fraction too early. Minutes later, a press release had been handed to Michonne telling her that Daryl had had 20 seconds added to his race time, pushing him down into second place.

...and Rick into first. Which gave Grimes 2 extra points and the Championship.

Daryl pointed at Michonne angrily.

"I told ya. I fuckin' _been_ tellin' ya ALL season that the fuckin' clutch on that bike was slippin'. Ya think I'd have done a jump start if that had been workin'? 'Cause I wouldna'. _Fuck_!"

He aimed a kick at the nightstand, sending a lamp, tin of Coke, phone and alarm clock flying. Daryl paced the floor, running his hands through his hair, and trying not to descend into desperate sobbing.

"Never had nothin', ya know? No family that gave a shit about me, 'specially once Merle died. No real home, been fuckin' eking my way in other people's places since I was 14. Never had nobody that gave a shit asides from Grimes and look how that turned out. But this, _this_ I fuckin' had – and I can't even have _that_."

Michonne let Daryl get everything off his chest. Daryl shocked himself with what he said and how he felt. He'd had no idea that winning and the adoration he'd received had meant that much until it had been so cruelly snatched away.

"Is there anything I can do?" Michonne eventually said.

"Yeah," Daryl nodded. "Make sure I stay inside this room."

"Why?"

" _Why_? 'Cause if I lay eyes on Rick Grimes, I'm gonna kill him."

*

A month had passed since the race in Atlanta. Rick still didn't know how to feel about being handed the Championship. On the one hand, when he watched the race back, yeah, maybe Daryl had shot off the starting line a fraction of a second too early, but on the other, he had won by over 10 seconds. In Rick's mind, the sheer scope of Daryl's win had negated any possible jump start anyway.

He hadn't wanted Hershel to report their suspicions, he _hadn't_. And he needed to at least explain that to Daryl. Michonne had come through, told Rick when she would be out, and when Daryl would be in, and now Rick was outside her apartment door. When he rang the bell, he heard a bark, and he couldn't help but smile at the thought of seeing Jack again; even though he must be an old dog now.

The door opened, and Rick saw Daryl's face fall.

"Can I come in?"

"I should slam this door back in yer fuckin' face."

Rick rolled back on his heels.

"Yeah, you should. But it was Hershel that reported you, not me. I didn't want him to."

Daryl stepped back, holding the door open for Rick to enter Michonne's apartment.

"Figured as much. That old bastard been bitter about me since the day I walked out of his team."

Rick followed him inside, seeing for the first time the place where Daryl had moved to after he'd left Rick's dad's ranch. It wasn't the kind of home Rick imagined Daryl would ever be happy; the only sign that he even lived here being a half-empty bottle of bourbon on the kitchen counter.

Michonne's lounge was clean and modern, and Rick felt as alien standing in the middle of it as Daryl looked. Daryl just stared at him, taking a drink every now and then.

"Throw a punch at me, if you want," Rick eventually said. "Or at least say something."

"Ya deserve more than a punch," Daryl snarled. He gave Rick a slow, deliberate look up and down. Rick felt uncomfortable and too damn hot; the room suddenly seemed too small to acommodate he and Daryl, and the atmosphere had shifted in a way that Rick couldn't put his finger on.

"Daryl..." Rick began, but his words sounded strangled; and all the while Daryl was staring, staring, staring.

"Follow me," Daryl said, his voice barely audible. "Jack, _stay_."

Rick was right behind him as they walked into what he assumed was Daryl's bedroom. The sparse decor and smell took him years back, to Daryl's room above his dad's garage. Daryl's helmet was sitting on a chair in the corner, and a crumpled pack of cigarettes was sitting on the nightstand.

Daryl turned to look at him, and Rick saw that he was trembling. His cheeks were flushed with colour, and he was breathing heavily.

"Daryl, I..."

Daryl's mouth silenced whatever Rick was going to say; his tongue pushing between Rick's lips immediately, and his hand sliding down the front of Rick's jeans. Rick staggered backwards, shocked by Daryl's actions, but soon responding with fervour. He reached down and unbuttoned himself, giving Daryl's hand more room. Rick gasped, scared he would come within seconds with the way Daryl was rubbing him up and down. He didn't know what was happening, but he was too scared to say anything or pull away in case it stopped.

Daryl had his hands on either side of Rick's face now, the force with which he was kissing him pushing Rick backwards against the wall. Rick's head audibly thudded against it, but Daryl kept on kissing him, pausing only to pull Rick's t-shirt over his head. Once discarded, Daryl's lips found Rick's nipples, sucking and tonguing them hungrily; making Rick moan when Daryl gave one a small bite.

Rick gripped onto Daryl's wide shoulders and managed to turn them both around. He'd missed the combined strength of them – how he knew he could be rough because Daryl was his equal, and vice versa. Rick sank down onto his knees, unbuttoning Daryl's jeans and then yanking them down to free his cock. Rick moaned when he saw it, realising that he remembered everything about it - the thickness and shape, the way it felt heavy and veiny in his hand. He wrapped his fingers around it and put it in his mouth eagerly, and yeah – he also remembered the ache of his jaw after he'd always done this with Daryl, how it was hard not to gag when Daryl came anywhere near to sinking his full length into his mouth. And the taste of Daryl... the warmth of his skin and the tang on the tip of Rick's tongue made the years fall away.

Rick felt Daryl tugging his curls, and they both fell to the floor, more wrestling than kissing; rolling around on the hard wooden floor in an attempt to get the other onto his back. To Rick's surprise he seemed to be winning, his knee between Daryl's thighs as he pinned him down and leant over to kiss him. Daryl's hands were on his ass, pushing his jeans down. Rick kicked them off, and helped Daryl wriggle out of his own. They were both naked now, cocks sliding against each other. Daryl bit at Rick's bottom lip, his jaw, his neck.

Daryl put an arm above his head, grabbing upwards at the nightstand. He managed to hook a finger around the drawer handle, pulling it open. He arched upwards and pushed Rick off him so he could get onto his knees. Rick heard a rustle, and then Daryl was handing him a foil packet and a small tube. He looked down at his palm.

"Where did you..?"

"Michonne. Ages ago," was all Daryl said, getting onto the bed. Rick stood at the edge of the mattress, his body shaking and his dick jutting up towards his stomach. Daryl turned to look at him, and Rick drank in the sight of him – lust-heavy grey-blue eyes, messy fair hair that was tucked behind his ear, and lithe, toned body. Daryl was in his physical prime; they both were.

Daryl lay back and Rick was on top of him in seconds, their bodies flush as they kissed.

The years fell away.

"Why now?" Rick whispered.

"No talkin'," Daryl ordered, turning over and going up onto his knees; an open invitation. Rick's heart was hammering as he made his fingers slippery, pushing one into Daryl before he heard his begs for more. Daryl arched his back and met Rick's movements, making a moaning noise that was making Rick even harder. He jerked himself off for a few seconds as he enjoyed the sight of the quivering mass of tanned muscle beneath him.

"'M ready," Daryl breathed.

Rick held onto his lube-drenched cock as he began to ease his way in. He felt lightheaded from holding his breath, only releasing a gasp as he heard Daryl softly tell him to stop.

" _Slow_ ," Daryl warned.

Rick watched Daryl's fingertips grip against the bed sheet as he breached him; the way Daryl turned his head to the side, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth slightly agape.

"Are you okay?" Rick asked, but Daryl didn't answer, just gave a nod and moved his hips from side to side as if asking Rick to continue.

As Rick pushed into Daryl, deeper than he'd been yet, he thought he might collapse, or die. A rivulet of sweat was pouring down his sternum and pooling in his belly button, and he wondered what would happen if he passed out right this very instant. The room was boiling; Daryl's tight heat gripping his dick, and Rick unable to stop himself from giving a first slow, delicious thrust. _Christ_. Rick's head was light as he jerked his hips again, then again. Daryl began to moan in approval, thrashing his head about on the mattress, and asking for more _. Fuck me, Rick, harder, fuck me..._

Rick placed his hands onto Daryl's shoulders and fucked into him. Daryl yelped, his knees shaking so much that Rick thought they might both collapse. He kept up his rhythm; Daryl properly groaning now at the angle Rick was consistently hitting him at.

"I'm close, I'm close," Rick gulped.

"Don't come yet," Daryl pleaded. Rick reached around for Daryl's dick, feeling it pulsing and wet at the tip. He whispered _Come for me_ into Daryl's ear, and then Daryl was climaxing, half-sobbing as his body shook with the force of it, spurting into Rick's enclosed fist and thrusting shallowly as he rode it out.

Rick pulled his hand away, the sight of Daryl's twitching cock and come sending him out of control. He pumped into Daryl with a force that shocked even himself, and came, hard and blinding. He sighed Daryl's name as he pulled out of him, unsure if he would ever get his breath back again. He watched Daryl roll over onto his back, come shiny on his stomach, and lips swollen and red. Daryl handed him his discarded t-shirt, and Rick wiped the two of them down before throwing it onto the floor with the used condom.

He joined Daryl in lying on his back, watching as Daryl reached for his cigarettes and lit one. He held up the tip to Rick's mouth, and Rick took a drag. Neither of them said a word as Daryl finished his smoke and stubbed it out.

Rick's chest and forehead was touching Daryl's as they kissed slowly. For the first time since Rick had arrived, it was soft, tender. It felt like it meant something, it felt like how it used to feel, and then Daryl was gently whispering _Oh Rick, Rick, Rick_ with an ache in his voice that made Rick's heart swell with hope. His feelings hadn't ever gone away. He realised that now.

"Daryl, can we talk..."

Daryl stood up quickly, getting a clean t-shirt from the drawer.

"Need to take Jack out. You should go."

Rick nodded and put his clothes back on as Daryl pulled on jeans and boots.

They faced each other. Daryl's eyes were narrowed.

"Wanted to do that, see if I still hated the sight of ya afterwards," he said coldly.

He pulled the t-shirt over his head and looked Rick square in the eye.

"...I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY.
> 
> The reason I didn't split this chapter into 2 separate ones was because I wanted it to really represent the gruelling nature of a year-long Championship battle between Rick and Daryl.
> 
> Racing can be a bit crazy sometimes, and anything I write about has either actually happened in either bike or car racing, or could _feasibly_ happen. Sadly the part with Glenn has happened in real life. 
> 
> I appreciate hearing what you think, as always :)


	11. 11.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It was over with Daryl. Any hope he had harboured that one day they might go back to the way they had once been was dead and buried. You couldn't fake the cold tone that Daryl had had in his voice as he'd told Rick he hated him. Rick had believed every devastating word._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to normal length chapters, whew! I'm hoping to get back to a fortnightly posting schedule but we'll see.
> 
> Not much to say about this one except I am so, so sorry for the EXTREME AWKWARDNESS in this chapter.
> 
> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/  
> I also post updates there about posting times and how far behind I am!

Rick hadn't eaten for a week after he'd left Michonne's apartment. He'd barely slept for two. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he winced at his grey pallor and gaunt face; recoiling with horror at the way his cheekbones jutted out and the dullness of his eyes.

It was over with Daryl. Any hope he had harboured that one day they might go back to the way they had once been was dead and buried. You couldn't fake the cold tone that Daryl had had in his voice as he'd told Rick he hated him. Rick had believed every devastating word.

Three weeks had passed, and each moment was still burned into Rick's brain. It had been life-altering. Passionate, clumsy, intense – and there had been love there too, or as close as it could be. Rick had _felt_ it in Daryl's soft kisses when they had both been lying there afterwards.

"You're supposed to be spending this time celebrating," his dad told him one lunchtime as he spooned out a large portion of lasagna onto Rick's plate.

Rick picked up his fork and prodded the bubbling cheese. He had no appetite, still.

"Celebrate what?" he couldn't stop himself from snapping. "Winning by _default_?"

Richard sat down and took a sip of red wine.

"Sure, the way you won wasn't ideal, but when it comes to the history books, people will just see _your_ name as the winner. They won't remember _how_."

He paused, staring at Rick as if he was trying to read him.

"You don't look well. What's going on with you, Rick?"

"Nothing." Rick moved his food around on the plate.

Richard tutted.

"No need to go into surly teenager mode. I just... I'm worried about you. This thing with Daryl's hit you hard, huh?"

"Something like that." Rick put his fork down and took a sip of water.

"Eat up," Richard demanded. "Not to stick my nose in, but do you know what you need? A _girlfriend_. Most boys your age are sowing their wild oats. I mean when I was 22, before I was with your mom, I lost count of the number of girls I..."

Rick looked up in abject horror.

" _Jesus_ , dad. _Enough_. I'll finish my food and go call Shane to see if he wants to go to the movies or something, okay?"

Rick forced himself to eat half of the food on his plate before excusing himself and going into the garage. He found some garbage bags, a tin of white paint, and some brushes and cloth rags. He tried to ignore the spot where the Triumph had once stood. He was happy that Daryl had gotten that bike that he'd worked so hard on, but damn, Rick missed it. The Triumph being gone was a constant reminder that Daryl was gone too.

He strode purposefully into his bedroom, tearing down posters and pulling the sheets off both single beds. He ruthlessly tipped boxes of toys and comic books into the garbage bags, before opening each drawer and going through whatever old clothes and underwear were in there. He found a ripped moss-green vest that had been Daryl's when they were 17 or 18. Into the bag it went, along with cassette tapes and the old Walkman they had shared.

In the top drawer, Rick found something wrapped in tissue paper. He opened it to find the bracelet Daryl had made him for his 16th birthday. He stared at it, twisting it around in his fingers and pressing it to his lips. The leather was a little worn now from Rick wearing it constantly that year; he'd only taken it off when they'd started racing in case it got lost or broken during a crash. Rick looked from the bracelet to the garbage bag, and wrapped it back up into the paper, carefully setting it at the very back of the drawer.

Clear-out done, he got the old bed sheets and laid them over the carpet and furniture, rolling up his sleeves and pouring out some of the white paint. When he applied the first brushstroke to the wall, he immediately felt better. Clear away the past, clear away the thoughts in his head, clear away the memories of Daryl Dixon ever being here.

Rick painted the entire room in the space of a few hours, enjoying how the white paint gave the room the appearance of a blank canvas.

The next morning, Richard drove Rick to the furniture store where he bought bedding, curtains, some lamps, and a new double bed.

"You've made enough money for your own place, you know," Richard commented on the drive home. "There's no point redecorating your room if you want to move out."

"I love the ranch, Dad."

"I know, but..."

"Couldn't leave you rattling around the place on your own now, could I?"

Richard laughed, but it was hollow. It was true, though. Rick couldn't just leave his dad alone in the large ranchhouse. And more than that, Rick was scared to live alone, in case he ever felt... panicky again, like he had during the season. He needed to live with his dad as much as his dad needed him to.

"Fancy a bonfire?" Richard asked, as they pulled up outside the house. His eyes flashed wickedly.

Within an hour, Rick and his dad were clinking bottles of beer and watching as the two single beds from Rick's bedroom went up in flames. Rick retrieved the garbage bags from the trash and upended their contents onto the pyre as well. Even Richard seemed shocked at how ruthless he had been as he watched the items begin to burn.

"Aren't those clothes Daryl's?"

"Well he's not going to come around to get them any time soon, so..." Rick took a swig of his drink and refused to meet his dad's eyes.

"All me and your mom ever wanted was for you to be happy," Richard said pensively. His face was illuminated by the licking flames of the fire. "I feel like you aren't."

"I'm tired," Rick lied. "Just tired, that's all."

"Getting rid of all your things, though... all the stuff you had when Daryl lived here. Anything going on with that?"

"Nope. I'm just not a kid anymore. Time to get rid of kid stuff."

"I know he was more like your brother, Rick. Brothers fight. But you seem to really have taken it hard, and..."

"Hey Dad?" Rick's heart was hammering with panic as he tried to think of something to change the subject. "Mind if I invite my friend Lori over the night after Christmas?" He blurted.

Richard's face broke into a smile that Rick suspected was relief.

"Is she that tall girl with the long brown hair?"

"Yes, her."

"I'd like that very much." He nudged Rick and winked. "That explains the double bed, huh kid?"

Rick blanched.

*

Daryl put a knee on Michonne's suitcase to keep it shut as she zipped it up.

"Sure you don't want to put an 18th pair of shoes in there?" he snarked.

Michonne snorted.

"Are _you_ sure you don't want to come with me? There's plenty of room at my sister's place and you'd love the woods in upstate New York."

"Can't be your lodger, your employee, _and_ your pity party," Daryl rolled his eyes.

"Okay, but I don't like to think of you on your own here on Christmas Day."

"I never had a Christmas when I was a kid, I think I can cope with not having one when I'm grown."

"I just wish you had some family you could go to, is all. Surely there's someone?" Michonne asked.

"Got a great Aunt somewhere, I think," Daryl shrugged. "Never met her, and she don't live near Atlanta. How about you piss off, so I can spend the next few days lying on your couch in my underwear."

" _Jesus_ ," Michonne shuddered. She bent down to kiss Jack goodbye and gave Daryl a nod as she left.

It was true, the kid part anyway. When Daryl had lived at the Grimes ranch, they'd always celebrated Christmas. And Daryl had pretended to hate it – decorating the tree, watching the old black and white movies that Richard loved on television, and wearing stupid paper crowns when they sat down to eat maple-glazed ham and buttered greens. But he could see that both Rick and Richard were trying to make a real effort for the other one's sake, in the absence of Rick's mom, so Daryl had really tried too.

The first Christmas he had spent at the ranch had been the first year he had ever gotten a Christmas present. Rick had bought him a new t-shirt and a few bars of his favorite chocolate as if it had been nothing. The best Christmas Daryl had had prior to that was when he was 7 or 8, and his daddy had been on a bender and never come home. He, his momma and Merle had managed to have a day free from his drunken rages and violence. They had shared a pot of stew and then his momma made them all hot chocolate before going to bed. It was one of the few times as a child that Daryl had gone to sleep with a full belly and peace of mind.

So being alone today was nothing. He opened the fridge to get some beer, only to find a plate of chicken and potatoes that Michonne had left him, along with a huge slab of chocolate cake. Daryl smiled and put the food in the microwave before opening a bottle of Budweiser. He would miss this kind of thing when he got his own place; he'd seen a couple of small houses just outside the city, and after the holidays he was really going to have to get his shit in order.

Mostly he just wanted to get back on his bike and kick Grimes' ass again. He lay down on the couch, trying hard to think of nothing but revenge and not what had happened between he and Rick in his room. The memory of how it had felt when Rick was thrusting into him was seared into Daryl's brain, and he squeezed his eyes shut in a failed attempt to think of something else.

Rick had kissed him afterwards, hungrily yet soft, so soft. Right then, Daryl had felt like they were back in Rick's bedroom, or in a cheap hotel back when they were first teammates in Supersport. His lips had betrayed him, and he'd kissed back; saying Rick's name over and over until his brain had caught up with his heart, and he'd made Rick leave.

*

Rick saw how Richard's face beamed as Lori held her plate out and asked for a second helping of pecan pie. Rick could tell that his dad was utterly charmed by her, and it was hard not to be. She laughed and chatted as if she had known Richard for years, and appeared enraptured by everything he had to say. Being sociable and friendly came naturally to her, and Rick couldn't help but compare her behaviour in this kind of situation to Daryl's. Over coffee, she offered to teach Richard how to play gin rummy on her next visit. She had Richard grinning more than Rick had seen for years. It gave him a certain sense of contentment that he rarely felt.

"You know," she began excitedly. "My folks were huge fans of yours back in the day, my dad is blown away that I'm having dinner with Richard Grimes."

"That's very flattering, maybe when the weather picks up, you can invite them over for a cook-out sometime. Now why don't you settle down in the lounge while Rick and I do the dishes?" Richard suggested. "Would you like some wine?"

Lori turned down the offer of wine politely before leaving them alone in the kitchen.

"It's good to see you with someone," Rick's dad said, turning on the tap. "For a while there I thought..."

"Dad, don't."

"I don't mean _that_ , I just mean that I thought that you were too shy, or..."

Rick cringed inwardly.

"So you like her?" he took a plate from his dad and dried it.

Richard nodded.

"She seems like a nice girl. Knows the racing world and what it means, just like your mom did."

"Yeah," Rick said quietly.

Richard took the cloth from Rick and shooed him out of the kitchen.

"Don't stay in here gassing with your old man when she's sitting in there on her own. Go on, I can finish up here and then go to bed; leave you two youngsters to it."

Rick's hands were sweating as he walked into the lounge and sat down on the couch beside Lori. She'd put fresh lipstick on and more perfume, and was warming her small feet against the crackling log fire. Her eyes lit up as she turned towards him.

"Your dad's really nice," she smiled. "And this house... wow."

"I love it here," Rick nodded. Now that they didn't have the buffer of his dad, he felt tongue-tied.

They made idle chit chat, which Rick realised he was terrible at. He wasn't one for talking for the sake of it – whether he'd always been like that, or he was just used to he and Daryl communicating more through looks and touches than words, he wasn't sure.

He couldn't talk about past relationships, he didn't like talking about his mom, and he certainly had no interest in talking about racing.

"Quiet guy, aren't you?" Lori mused.

Rick cleared his throat. "Sorry, I..."

"It's okay, it's okay," Lori giggled, placing a hand on his knee. "Not saying that it's a bad thing. You're just not like other guys I've dated."

_Like Shane, you mean_ , Rick thought, feeling a strange stab of jealousy.

He liked the way the heat from the fire had made her cheeks pink, and how the Christmas tree lights were twinkling behind her head. She sat back on the couch and crossed her legs with a happy sigh.

"I just love the holidays. Do you have any plans for New Year's Eve, Rick?"

"Don't laugh," Rick began. "But I have to do a talk show. Can you believe it?"

"Which one?" Lori asked, her eyes widening with interest.

"Um... _Morgan_." Rick looked down shyly. _Morgan_ was the biggest late night talk show in the South, and he was terrified of going on live television to be interviewed. It was different when he was at a race, but now he was going to be sitting in a studio, being asked all sorts of questions that he wasn't entirely sure he'd know how to answer.

"Holy shit!" Lori exclaimed. "My mom and dad watch that every night. You're going to be on his New Year's Eve special?"

"Yup."

Lori sat up, her face flushed.

"That's amazing." She looked at Rick through long lashes. "Although... I guess part of me hoped..."

"What?" Rick asked.

"That we'd spend New Year's together. But this is much cooler. How exciting!"

Rick took a deep breath.

"Well... it films in Atlanta, and I _do_ get to bring a guest. Would you be interes..."

Rick didn't get to finish his sentence before Lori's arms were around him and her mouth was pressed against his cheek in excited gratitude. It felt good to be so wanted. She was graceful, and sweet, and pretty – Rick knew he could bring her anywhere and she would be charming. He took her hands in his and held them gently.

"We've had a nice evening, haven't we?"

"Oh yes, Rick. It's been wonderful."

"So I was wondering..." Rick began. "Maybe you'd like to make this official?"

"Like, I'm now your girlfriend?" Lori smiled widely.

Rick nodded. Lori gave a squeal and kissed him on the mouth. Rick pulled her body close to his, tasting her lipstick and smelling hairspray and her strong floral perfume.

All he knew was that Daryl had left him broken. He'd seen how his Dad was about his mom. Maybe a good woman who wanted to settle down was the answer. Rick was tired; it was time to give up the fight.

*

Daryl poured nacho cheese over his tortilla chips and slumped onto the couch to channel-surf. New Year's Eve TV _sucked_. It was still two hours until midnight and Daryl was pretty sure he'd sleep through the whole thing, not that he cared anyway.

He stopped changing channels when he saw that _Morgan_ was about to start. The late night chat show was more watchable than anything else that was on, and now and then he interviewed some interesting enough people.

_"Good evening and welcome to this New Year's Eve special! What a show we have for you tonight, folks. Coming up we have music from Shania Twain, but my first guest is so fast that he might make it to 1998 before the rest of us do. Ladies and gentlemen, give a big welcome to US Superbike champion Rick Grimes!"_

"Fuck!" Daryl spat, opening a bottle of beer and beckoning for Jack to jump up onto his lap. The dog lay with his head resting against Daryl's chest, as if knowing his owner needed the comfort.

The audience began to applaud, and then there was Rick fucking Grimes, walking onto the set of one of the country's most popular late night talk shows, waving and smiling as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Daryl could never have done something like that, not with so many people watching him. When Rick sat down onto the famous pale leather chair of the _Morgan_ show, Daryl could tell he was nervous by the way he constantly rubbed his chin and jiggled his right foot.

Morgan asked him questions about racing – trivial shit, like what he thought about when he was racing, how he prepared beforehand, that kind of crap. Then Morgan sat back, shaking his head.

_"Well I have to say, Rick, I thought I had the greatest job in the world, but meeting you has changed my mind."_

_"Oh I don't know,"_ Rick smiled. Daryl picked up on the slight shake in Rick's voice. _"I think you do okay, Morgan!"_

_"He's too modest, ladies and gentlemen!"_ Morgan held his arms out. _"I mean look at this guy – 22 years old, stupidly handsome, races a cool bike for a living, and has the prettiest girls on his arm, am I right?"_

The audience whooped and cheered. Daryl's eyes narrowed. Rick looked down at a spot between his knees bashfully.

_"Don't play coy with me, Rick,"_ Morgan laughed. _"You must have your pick of all of the umbrella girls at races."_

_"Well I'm really just focused on the racing, so..."_

_"Not so focused that you didn't bring one with you tonight!"_ Morgan guffawed. Man, he was starting to piss Daryl off now. _"Is she someone special or do you have a different girl at every track?"_

Rick licked his lips as he considered his answer. He seemed so uncomfortable that Daryl almost felt sorry for him.

_"Yeah. Yeah, she's someone special."_

Daryl fumbled for the remote and switched off.

Happy fucking new year.

*

Rick couldn't believe that he was sitting in a limousine. Apparently all of the guests got driven home from _Morgan_ this way, and Rick tried not to appear too dumbstruck by the tinted windows and free bottle of champagne.

Lori looked more comfortable with the whole experience than Rick did. She'd been enjoying the complimentary cocktails and canapes backstage all evening, and was more than a little tipsy. She was in a black velvet cocktail dress, her hair piled up on top of her head, and a slash of scarlet lipstick on her mouth. She looked stunning, and Rick couldn't deny his own male pride at having her on his arm tonight.

In the back seat, she swung a long fishnet-clad leg over his thighs and pressed her lips against his neck.

"You don't need to be a gentleman," she slurred. "You can have me, any time. You can have me _right now_."

" _Lori_ ," Rick hissed, looking nervously at the back of their chaffeur's head.

"I love that you're shy with me," she whispered, rubbing him between the legs. "You like that, huh?"

Rick pushed her hand away. He didn't have a fucking clue what to do with a woman, especially not one that had been with Shane.

"You're drunk," he told her. "Let's wait until your head is a little clearer, okay?"

Lori moved away and looked out of the window, sulkily sipping her champagne.

Rick shut his eyes and tried to stop the tremble in his hand and the lightness in his head.

*

"Got something I need to tell you," Rick confessed.

He and Shane were back at the dirt bike track they had gone to when they were younger, blowing away the post-holiday cobwebs, and getting in some pre-season practice. Rick knew that Shane had cheated multiple times on Lori, but he still couldn't help feeling guilty that he had asked her to go steady with him before he'd given Shane a heads-up.

Shane shook his head and laughed.

"Man, if it's about you and Lori, I know. I watched you on _Morgan_ and figured it was her."

"Shit," Rick swore under his breath.

Shane shrugged.

"It's cool, Rick. Me and her was over ages ago, before _she_ even knew it. You guys done it yet?"

"Nope. Wanted to wait for..."

"Wait for what?"

"Until she's ready."

Shane bent over in laughter.

"Lori? You _kidding_ me? Oh hell man, she's ready, _believe_ me. Bet she's done the sweet little innocent girl act on you, hasn't she?"

Rick didn't answer, and Shane gave a shit-eating grim.

"Yeah, thought so. Look - if you need some tips, hey, I'm your guy."

"I don't doubt that for a second, but I don't need any tips," Rick lied.

"Well that's good for you," Shane replied. "But I gotta warn you – she's a _screamer_."

"I'm sure I'll find out." Rick winked, and then pulled his visor down. It just wasn't him, talking like that.

They did 5 laps of the dirt track. Rick used to love how free it had made him feel. Now, because it was part of his training plan for the new season, it just felt like work. Beside him, he could hear Shane whooping as they went around corners, their knees trailing across the ground, but it just made Rick feel stressed out and anxious about getting back to racing. He held his finger up to Shane and circled it in the air, motioning for him to stop.

They both pulled their bikes up.

"What's up?" Shane asked. "Something wrong with the bike?"

"No," Rick replied. "Just think I might go back home. Not really feeling it today."

"You sick?"

Rick shook his head.

"I'm not sick. I just need a longer break from bikes, I think. After everything that happened."

Shane swore under his breath and pointed at Rick.

"I got an idea - how about stop moping, Rick. You're not happy about how you won? Then stop fucking complaining, get meaner, and take it to that prick Dixon next season. I'm sick and tired of you acting like this when you should be on top of the world."

"I just..." Rick began.

"Just what?" Shane snapped. "You got the best bike out of anyone. Fucking _use_ it. Time you got ruthless, Rick."

"Oh what, like _you_ , you mean? Cutting across people, barging them off the track?" Rick sneered. "Get ruthless? Know who you sound like? Fucking _Negan_ , that's who."

Shane pulled his helmet off and jabbed Rick on the shoulder.

"Negan is _right_. And I ride like we're meant to – take no prisoners."

"Well good luck to you, Shane, if you have to ride over a fucking body like I did when Glenn was killed."

Shane shrugged.

"Was awful what happened with that kid. But hell, we're all gonna get injured or die at some point, Rick."

Rick shook his head, refusing to listen to what Shane was saying. He couldn't cope with that thought. He _couldn't_.

"I don't go out there to fucking die, Shane. You want to ride like Negan tells you to? Shit like that is _wrong_ , man. Risk your own life if you want. Don't risk the lives of the rest of us."

"Gotta do what you gotta do to win."

Rick felt a cold shiver go down his spine.

"I don't want to be around you anymore if that's your way of thinking," he shook his head.

"Ignore what I'm saying all you want," Shane said quietly. "But we're _all_ gonna have the big one some time."

*

Daryl threw the real estate brochure into the trash. He didn't want to live in the suburbs, or rattle around in a huge house in the country. Living at the Grimes ranch for so many years had spoiled him, he realised. He'd never have it that good again.

He felt more and more like he was encroaching on Michonne's space now. She was sitting at the kitchen table on her computer, trying to sort out sponsorship deals and accounts for the coming season. Reams of paper were scattered around her, and several large cardboard boxes full of baseball cap samples were taking up most of the lounge.

"If I got out of your hair, you could use my room as an office for all this shit," Daryl mused.

"It's okay," Michonne replied, rubbing her eyes. "I shouldn't bring work home anyway. There's just so much to do before the first race."

"I'm going to get a beer. You want one?" Daryl asked.

Michonne shook her head and resumed typing. It was on the tip of Daryl's tongue to tell her what had happened with Rick, but she'd only embarrass him by asking for every minute detail, and try to get Daryl to work things out with him.

God, he was going fucking insane, though. The only time he didn't think about Rick's hands and lips and dick being on and inside him was when he was out on his motorcycle. The evenings were the worst, when he lay in bed unable to sleep, feeling restless and turned on. So turned on. Enough do to something reckless, something to help quell the ache inside of him.

He nodded towards Michonne's computer.

"Hey, got the internet on that thing?"

Michonne suppressed a laugh.

"Of course. What is it... d'you want me to finally get you an email account?"

"Hell no."

Michonne looked up at him over the top of her screen, intrigued.

"What is it?"

Daryl scuffed his feet against the floor. He gulped down almost half of his bottle of beer and wiped his mouth.

"Just need to look somethin' up. An address, for a house I'm lookin' at."

Michonne stood up and beckoned for him to take her place. Daryl sat down as she showed him where to type.

"Then just hit this button to search, okay? It only takes about 30 seconds for the page to load. I'm going to go have a hot bath and a glass of wine." She paused. "Will you be here when I get back?"

"Nah," Daryl mumbled, beginning to type slowly. He made sure Michonne was in the bathroom before hitting Enter, cracking his knuckles as he waited for the page to appear. He made a mental note of the address he was looking for, grabbed his leather jacket and a plain black baseball cap, and left.

*

Daryl pulled his cap down over his eyes as he walked into the club. The neon sign above the doorway said _The Cell_ , and he knew that if he hadn't been drinking all evening that he would never have dreamed about going to a place like this. But he had to... he needed...

The inside of the club was dark and smoky, thank God. Daryl lit a cigarette and ordered a shot of Jack at the bar. The barman glanced at his face briefly, but with the baseball cap and hair over his eyes, Daryl felt confident nobody would recognise him. He downed his shot, and ordered another, looking around as he did so. He wasn't sure what he'd expected from a gay bar, but this seemed normal. Guys sat at tables chatting or kissing; some were dancing, or alone at the bar like he was. He tried to imagine he and Rick at a table, fitting in, acting out in the open like they always had in private. It would never happen. Even if he and Rick had still been close, they _never_ could have come here.

Daryl wondered how many more shots he would have to drink before he stopped feeling so uncomfortable and self-conscious. He sat hunched over the bar, twirling a beer mat over and over in his fingers and hoping the music that was playing would get better. The repetitive drone of the dance beat was making him feel anxious as fuck. He began to wonder why the fuck he had come here; not even chasing the feeling of that night with Rick was worth this.

"Could I get a large glass of merlot?"

Daryl glanced to the side at the man ordering beside him, and gave a cursory nod.

"...and whatever this guy's having."

Daryl held his glass up.

"Jack. Thanks."

Daryl looked him up and down. He wasn't anything special, but he had curly brown hair and blue eyes. That was enough. He needed to scratch this itch, and get the fuck out of here.

"Never seen you here before," the man said. His voice was soft, well-spoken.

"Don't need to use lines on me," Daryl threw his shot back and coughed.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't need to feed me bullshit or buy me drinks."

Daryl stood up, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans and throwing the man a loaded look. He was trembling as he walked to the bathroom, not daring to look back to see if he was being followed.

He was. Daryl heard footsteps as he entered the grimy, dark bathroom, and headed for the furthest away cubicle. It was covered in graffitti and stank of cheap air-freshener. He walked inside and left the door ajar so the man could join him. He felt breath on the back of his neck and a hand on his shoulder, turning him around. Too late to run, now.

Daryl winced at the metallic crash of the door slamming shut as he backed against it. The man's hands grappled with his flies immediately, pulling his jeans down and sinking down onto the floor. He wrapped his mouth around Daryl's flaccid dick before Daryl even had time to tell him what he wanted. Daryl looked down at the man's curly hair and couldn't stop himself from running his fingers through it. It felt coarser than Rick's and slightly sparser, but if Daryl just shut his eyes and pretended...

He felt his cock harden – no doubt, the guy was an expert at giving head. Circling his tongue, licking up and down his shaft, and then taking Daryl's whole considerable length into his moist mouth. It felt good. Not as good as with Rick, when his bones had always felt like jelly and his head had felt like it was going into another dimension, but good-enough-to-come-quickly good. Daryl gripped the back of the guy's head and fucked his mouth, not even caring that he started to cough and gag. Daryl just wanted to climax, and get out of there.

Daryl held the man's head steady as he felt his orgasm come in waves, jerking his hips as he shot his load once, twice, into the mouth that was still enveloping him.

As soon as he was done, he zipped himself back up, barely able to given how much his hands were shaking. He was about to open the cubicle door to split, when he turned around. The guy was still on his knees, wiping his mouth.

"Sorry," Daryl rasped. "Ain't about you, man. 'M Sorry."

*

Daryl arrived home, feeling sick-drunk and vaguely dirty. Michonne was still up, watching television in her bath robe.

"Hey," Daryl nodded, about to head into his bedroom. He needed a shower as soon as possible.

"Internet lesson number 2," Michonne called. Daryl turned around. "You can clear your search history."

"Dunno what y... "

"It's okay, Daryl," Michonne gave him a small smile. "I think it's good that you went. You should have just asked me for the address of that club." She raised an eyebrow and looked him up and down. "So how was it?"

"Ain't for me," was all Daryl said. "Thanks, 'Chonne. Fer not judgin'."

"Not my style," she shrugged, turning back to the television. "Oh hey, someone called for you."

Daryl frowned. "Fer me? Who?"

"She just said her name was Mary and she'd call back. She sounded pretty eager to speak to you."

"Don't know no Mary," Daryl shook his head, and went into his bedroom.

*

Rick watched his dad's truck drive away from the ranch as he slowly closed his bedroom curtains. Richard was going away for the weekend to Rick's aunt's place in Macon. He turned around to look at Lori, who was lying back on his new double bed, clad in only black lace lingerie. It was her first night staying over at the ranch, and Rick was more nervous than he usually was before a race; an odd sensation because with Daryl, it had always been _him_ that had initiated shit like this.

He joined Lori on the bed, turning off the main light and switching on the lamp on the nightstand. Should he put some romantic music on? Should he bring up some drinks? Rick realised with embarrassment that he had absolutely no game. _God damn you, Daryl Dixon, you've held me back from normal fucking life._

Lori leant across to kiss him. She was commanding and confident, everything that Rick should be right now.

"You've never been with a girl, have you?" Lori ran a hand across Rick's chest. "It's okay," she soothed. "I can show you..."

She straddled him, pulling his t-shirt over his head and freeing his dick from his boxer shorts. Rick held his breath, feeling self-conscious and unsure about where to put his hands. Lori grabbed them and held one against each of her small breasts.

"You can touch them," she said, reaching down and grabbing Rick's cock. He closed his eyes as she began to jerk him off. Her grip wasn't firm enough, and it chafed a little. Daryl's hands had known how to work him, known the angle and speed that he liked. Rick tried to imagine it was Daryl's hand pumping him now, thinking about the many times over the years that they had done this.

"Does that feel good?" she asked softly.

Rick blushed as he told her to spit into her hand and hold him tighter.

"A bit quicker?" he suggested. Lori complied, and Rick resumed thinking about that night with Daryl; the way his back had shone with sweat as Rick had thrust in and out of him. He felt his dick finally responding to Lori's ministrations, and her little cry of delight.

"You got a condom?" she asked, getting off him to remove her underwear before lying beside him.

Rick nodded, mentally thanking Shane for giving him a packet as a joke several months before. _If you ever get over this dry spell, Grimes..._

He got one from the drawer, rolling on top of Lori to kiss her. Her skin was soft, and smelt like cocoa butter. She felt delicate beneath Rick, like he could easily hurt her. He couldn't imagine scrabbling on the floor with her, or pummelling into her like he had with Daryl.

But he and Daryl were _done_ , Rick told himself. And now a beautiful, naked girl was beneath him, moaning for him to kiss her, and maybe this was what he needed – this normality that Shane and his dad believed he should have. Lori guided his hand between her legs, imploring him to touch her, and he did.

"Make love to me, Rick," she cooed, guiding him inside her. Rick sank into her wet heat, so easy compared to how clumsy and nervous he had been with Daryl.

_Fuck me, Rick, harder, fuck me..._

Rick tried to silence Daryl's voice in his head. Lori was flat on her back, not touching or kissing him. Her eyes were closed and she was silent. Rick moved in and out of her, placing kisses on her neck and mouth. He asked her if she was okay, and she nodded.

"I'm fine, this is so nice," she breathed.

_Fuck me, Rick, harder, fuck me..._

Rick focused on her small breasts as he gave two hard thrusts, thinking about tight heat and a sweat-lashed back before him. _Fuck me, Rick, harder, fuck me_ , Daryl's voice in his head kept saying, and Rick gave a long groan as he came. Lori made an _Mmm_ noise as he held her, letting his climax fade before slowly pulling out of her. She winced as he did so, and immediately reached over to the nightstand for a tissue.

Rick fought sleep as he sat back on the pillows beside her.

"Umm..." he bit his lip. "Are you okay."

"I'm fine. I'm good," Lori replied, kissing his cheek.

Rick's face burned with embarrassment at the awkwardness he felt.

"Sorry if you didn't..."

She threaded her fingers through his.

"It's no big deal. You're good at everything and you'll be good at this too."

_I **am** good_ , Rick thought. _With Daryl, anyway._

"Why don't I bring a bottle of wine up?" he suggested.

After two glasses of red wine, Rick was feeling less shy and inhibited. He planted kisses down the length of Lori's body, trying to remember all the filthy things Shane used to tell him he did to girls.

The second time was better. Rick thought that Lori had enjoyed it more too, if her small gasps were anything to go by. The thought crossed his mind that she could easily be pretending, but as she left the bedroom to go for a shower, Rick was distracted by the telephone ringing in the hallway.

He ran downstairs, still naked, and picked up.

"Hello?"

"Rick, that you?"

" _Daryl?_ "

"My daddy's dead."

Daryl hung up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear.
> 
> I am so thankful for the views, kudos and comments I have received so far. I love hearing what you all think x


	12. 12.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The church was tiny inside, with only a few rickety wooden pews. It smelt musty, like mildew and old books. Daryl felt sick as he walked to the front, seeing a few of his race crew first, then Hershel, Richard Grimes – and Rick. He couldn't stop himself from staring. Rick looked pale and thinner than normal, his black suit making his face even more sallow; clearly the make-up people at Morgan had done a good job in making him look healthier than he did right now. He caught Daryl's eye and gave a solemn nod, before looking away quickly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had fun writing this chapter... and that is all I'm saying for now.
> 
> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/  
> I also post updates there about posting times and how far behind I am!

Michonne had helped a reluctant Daryl buy a cheap black suit, tie and dress shoes for his daddy's funeral. Turned out, the woman called Mary who'd called for him while he was getting his dick sucked by some stranger in a club bathroom had been his daddy's aunt. She lived up near the North Carolina border. Daryl had never met her, and had no interest in doing so now.

Will Dixon had died in hospital after being ill for months. Cirrhosis, apparently. Daryl felt nothing but numbness every time he thought about it. Asshole deserved all he got. In fact, dying from an illness was an oddly kind way for him to go; given he could have died getting his ass kicked in some bar fight, or in a car wreck after drunk driving.

Ultimately, Daryl didn't care how his daddy had died. He didn't cry. He didn't feel any remorse at all, really.

He hadn't even wanted to go to the funeral until Michonne had sat him down and told him he'd regret it if he didn't. He hadn't been in a church since he was 7 years old; what the hell had God or Jesus ever done for him? If they couldn't have stopped a woman and her kids from getting beaten every night by a violent drunk, what use were they to Daryl now?

Now, he was sitting in the passenger seat of Michonne's car outside the small country church, having a last cigarette before going in. A few cars were already parked outside, and his stomach churned when he saw the truck that Richard Grimes drove. Was it Richard attending, Rick, or both? He opened the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie so he could breathe a little better.

"I never went to Merle's funeral," he turned to Michonne. "Don't see why I should go to this one."

"You were only a kid when Merle died," she replied, opening the car door. "Come on, the sooner you go in the sooner it will be over."

The church was tiny inside, with only a few rickety wooden pews. It smelt musty, like mildew and old books. Daryl felt sick as he walked to the front, seeing a few of his race crew first, then Hershel, Richard Grimes – and Rick. He couldn't stop himself from staring. Rick looked pale and thinner than normal, his black suit making his face even more sallow; clearly the make-up people at _Morgan_ had done a good job in making him look healthier than he did right now. He caught Daryl's eye and gave a solemn nod, before looking away quickly.

There was a seat in the front row for Daryl, and he glanced at an old woman who he assumed was the aunt. Michonne sat down beside him as he bowed his head – from shyness rather than reverance.

The minister's sermon was short, full of lies about what Will was really like; about how, even though he hadn't been a church attendee, he had 'had the love of the Lord in his heart'. Daryl disguised the _pfft_ noise he made at that with a cough. They sang _How Great Thou Art_ and _Amazing Grace_ , and then there was a prayer, which Daryl kept his eyes open for.

After, he shook hands with the team members that had come, and made plans to visit his Great Aunt Mary that he knew he would never keep. She left in a wheelchair with the carer she had come with, and Daryl knew he'd never lay eyes on her again. As he watched her go, Richard placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you okay, Daryl?"

"Yes sir. Thanks fer comin'. Didn't expect ya to be here."

It pained him to look into the blue eyes that were so like Rick's.

"Whatever feelings I had about your dad are unimportant now. I wanted to see you were alright, kid. You know I miss having you at the ranch."

Daryl dug his fingertails into his palm, wanting to cry for the first time since he'd gotten the news about his daddy dying.

"You were more like a daddy to me back then than the piece of shit lying in that grave out there." His voice shook and even Richard looked like he might crumble.

"Come back with us, Daryl," Richard pleaded, his voice breaking. "For my son's sake."

"I _can't_ ," Daryl choked. Richard nodded once in understanding, and left.

Daryl barely had time to gather himself when Hershel approached him, clasping his large hands around Daryl's and looking at him with the fondness that Daryl knew he had always felt for him.

"I'm sorry for you, son," he said. "And I'm sorry it's taken something like this for us to be in the same room again."

He shook Daryl's hand.

"If there's anything you need, anything at all..."

"Don't need nothin', sir," Daryl replied. "Appreciate you comin' but you didn't have to."

Hershel's brow furrowed.

"I _did_ have to. You were my rider, once. You know, I'm not going to apologise to you for reporting that jump start because it's my job, but I want you to know that it wasn't about _you_. It was for my team. And losing you from my team is the biggest regret of my career."

Daryl shrugged and looked down at his feet.

"Over it. Know you'd have done the same if it had been _me_ racin' for you."

"I would have. I'll still look out for you, Daryl. You and Rick. Which is why I want to tell you something." His voice lowered.

"Oh yeah? What?"

"Your daddy and I both lost ourselves in the bottle over the course of our lives. It ended better for me 'cause I quit. He didn't. And now he's here."

He gave Daryl one last handshake before walking outside with Michonne. Daryl looked around, realising that Rick was nowhere to be seen. Daryl wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed, but it had been good of him to come.

He didn't hate Rick, not at all. Hate was just an easier emotion to deal with.

Daryl walked outside to where the fresh grave was and stared at the plain headstone. _13 July 1947 – 4 February 1998._ Asshole had lived a longer life than he deserved. Daryl resisted the urge to spit at it.

"Fuck you," he growled. "Fuck you for every time you beat me an' Merle, and Momma too. I ain't _ever_ goin' to turn into ya."

He turned his head when he heard the scuff of a shoe behind him. Daryl saw the slim figure of Rick quickly walking away from the cemetery. He didn't call after him.

*

Rick should have known that the first email he ever sent would be about Daryl. It was an exciting moment, getting a reply from Michonne almost instantly.

_Hey Rick. He's at his dad's place. I don't know if you know, but the house belongs to him now. I assume you know the address if you're planning a visit? Hit me up if not. He needs a friend right now – even if he pretends he doesn't._

_Take care,_

_Michonne._

Rick sniffed the armpits of his t-shirt and ran his fingers through his short curls. He put boots on and went downstairs, grabbing the keys to the truck and a bottle of water for the drive. He could be there by mid-afternoon if he put his foot down.

He took a few wrong turns along the way; it had been a long time since he'd been on the narrow country roads leading to the Dixon house. The closer he got, the more overgrown the trees on either side of him became, so much so that they hit the windows at the side of the truck. The road became a dirt track and there were no more road signs or other vehicles. Although Rick felt a little disoriented, he also felt a strange sense of calm at being in the woods that Daryl loved so much.

He glanced over at a sign nailed to a tree that said _WAKE UP SINNERS_ and felt his stomach give a lurch. He was close. He remembered that sign, from all those years ago when his dad had come here to rescue Daryl. Did he think he was driving there now to do the same? Maybe Daryl would tell him to fuck off as soon as he laid eyes on Rick. All Rick knew was that he had to at least be there for him, if he was wanted.

He stopped the truck to get out and open a gate whose red paint was peeling, its _KEEP OUT_ sign faded, then began the short drive to the Dixon yard. The house's tin roof was rusting; the windows broken and porch barely holding up. The long grass was hiding old cars and motorbikes; a table saw; even a tractor. Daryl's Triumph was parked up outside, pristine and gleaming in contrast.

Rick turned the engine off and got out, looking for signs of life. The front door was ajar, but Rick wasn't entirely sure it was able to close anyway. The net curtains in the window were torn and yellowing. He wondered if Daryl owning this place would turn out to be Will's final act of cruelty against his youngest son.

He stood there for a moment before calling out a _Hello?_ He was immediately met by Jack trotting towards him, barking, but with his tail wagging happily.

"Who's there, boy?"

Daryl emerged from the front door, a long streak of dirt down one side of his face and sweat patches under the arms of his black shirt. He had a cigarette tucked behind one ear and a beer in his hand. He looked like shit. He looked divine.

"What are ya doin' here, Rick?"

"To see if you're okay."

"I'm okay. Be seein' ya."

Daryl jumped down off the porch and began to throw dried up branches into a wheelbarrow. Rick watched him for a few seconds, shuffling his feet awkwardly.

"Ain't ya goin'?" Daryl said, not even turning his head around.

Rick stared at the back of Daryl's head, wanting to grab the ends of the sweaty fair tendrils that were curling at the nape of his neck. He was tired from the drive and thirsty to boot; having finished his bottle of water ages ago. He'd come here to be kind, and now Daryl didn't even want him here?

"You're a fucking selfish prick, you know that?" Rick suddenly heard himself saying. He put his hands on his hips.

Daryl didn't move, but Rick swore the tips of his ears reddened.

"I didn't do jack _shit_ on you, Daryl. I went to your dad's funeral and I'm here NOW, just to see if you're doing alright. I did ALL of this even though you told me you hated me that night that we... And now you're telling me to _LEAVE_? You act like you're hard done by, like you're alone in this world – but the people who fucking HELP you, like me, and my dad, you treat like CRAP 'cause you're a FUCKING. SELFISH. _PRICK_."

Daryl remained stock still. Rick clenched his fists at his sides as he felt his temper rise. It scared him how easily he could throw a punch right now. He could do _more_ than throw a punch; he could slam Daryl against that wooden porch and destroy his face with his fists until they were bruised and bloodied. The hurt of the last few months caught up with Rick, blood rushing to his head until he felt like he might pass out from the anger. He paced over to his truck, placing his hands on the trunk and bowing his head, taking deep breaths in an attempt to stop his heart from racing. He was frightened by his own thoughts of violence; he knew he could put his fist right through the window of the truck if he didn't steady himself.

He looked up at the sound of twigs beneath feet. Daryl stood beside him, wordless.

"I don't..." Rick's breath caught in a sob. "I do _not_ deserve the way you've treated me."

He looked up at Daryl, who was biting his lip.

"I ain't good with people, Rick."

"Yeah well, I know that."

Rick finally stood back up, moving to lean against the truck. Jack jumped up on him, leaving muddy paw marks on the thighs of his jeans.

"Hurt like fuck, losin' that Championship," Daryl said sheepishly.

"I know that too." Rick stared grimly at Daryl. "It hurt like fuck when the person I grew up with left like nothing ever mattered. It hurt like fuck when you acted like winning meant more than _us_."

"You acted that way too."

"Yeah I did," Rick tilted his head to the side. "Only one of us walked away though."

Daryl didn't respond, and Rick knew not to wait for a sorry that would never come. Not from Daryl Dixon, not ever.

"Was wrong to say I hated ya," Daryl eventually said. "I don't."

"You were pretty convincing," Rick replied with a sad shake of his head.

Daryl didn't reply, his jaw jutting out defiantly. Rick had seen that look so many times before. That _fuck you_ expression that covered up so much hurt.

"I'm sorry about your dad." Rick said earnestly.

"Why do you care? You hated him."

"Well I'm still sorry. For _you_. I'm allowed to say that, aren't I?"

"Don't want your pity. Or anyone's pity. Poor Daryl Dixon, no mom, no brother, no daddy."

He spat on the ground, narrowly missing Rick's feet.

"Fuck everyone. If anyone cared half as much as they pretend to, they'd be helping me clear out this shithole."

"I can help," Rick practically whispered. "I _want_ to."

Daryl picked up an empty beer can from the overgrown weeds and threw it into the garbage can. Rick followed suit, disposing of three more, along with some half-empty milk cartons that stank, and an assortment of junk food wrappers.

"Ya can keep helpin'," Daryl eventually grunted. "If ya want."

Rick bent over to pick up more rubbish.

"Look, I'm sorry I left the funeral so quickly," he said. "I had to go out with Lori."

"On a date?" Daryl's voice was oddly high.

"Something like that."

"Well what did you have? Popeye's chicken, or spinach?"

"...What?"

"Fuckin' Olive Oyl lookin'..."

" _Daryl_!"

Rick was so disbelieving at Daryl's unashamed rudeness that he couldn't help but laugh. When he snuck a glance at Daryl, he was biting his lip to stop himself from smiling.

*

"Should burn this place down, be done with it," Daryl told Rick as they went inside to get a drink an hour later.

The inside of the house was even worse than Rick had anticipated. All of the furniture had obviously been cleared out, leaving a wooden floor covered in cigarette burns and old newspapers. There were large patches of damp in each corner, with peeling floral wallpaper that must have dated back to the 1970s or even 1960s. It smelt musty and rotting. The kitchen cupboards were splattered with a build-up of cooking grease, and the kitchen table didn't look like it had been eaten off for decades, being covered in tools, oil cans, and assorted motorcycle manuals.

"The two bedrooms ain't no better, so no point you lookin'," Daryl said with a shrug. "An' if ya want a piss, there's an outhouse out the back. Ain't no bathroom in here."

"What are you going to do with it?" Rick asked, making a face as a large spider dangled down from the ceiling right in front of his eyes. He felt itchy just being here, not to mention faintly upset knowing that the scars on Daryl's back had been caused in this place.

"I dunno. I mean, look at this dump," Daryl motioned to the cracked window. "Who the hell's gonna want to take it on?"

Rick looked around. It was bad, of that there was no doubt. But the wooden floor had maybe been beautiful, once. And if the porch was fixed, it could really be wonderful to sit there watching the sun disappear behind the trees every evening.

"Well... _you_." Rick exclaimed.

"What?" Daryl's eyes narrowed in disbelief.

"Daryl, you have money from racing, don't you?"

"S'pose so."

Rick held his arms out.

"So keep it. Imagine what it would look like all fixed up, that wooden floor repaired and shone up real nice. New kitchen and bathroom. A roof that isn't leaking. A garage outside for your bikes. Some place for Jack to spend his last years."

Daryl said nothing, just looked around the lounge.

"It's a lot of work, Rick."

"So _hire_ people. What's the point of making money from your racing if you're not going to benefit your life by using it? In a couple of months you could have this place transformed. I can help."

Daryl sucked air into his mouth.

"Good place for a dog, I s'pose."

*

Daryl loathed himself for hoping Rick would be impressed by the work he'd already done in a week. He'd stripped all of the wallpaper and scrubbed the floors clean so they could be repaired. The bedrooms were now empty too, and Daryl hadn't been sorry to see the back of his old childhood mattress. The place was a shell, but a shell whose potential was now overtaking the memories of what his daddy had done here. Daryl had never realised how peaceful the yard could be without the noise of machinery, or his daddy and Merle hollering; he'd never noticed the way the sky turned so many shades of purple out here in the countryside; more purple than the bruises he had always carried on him when he lived here.

Michonne had found builders and carpenters online for him to hire, reminding him that the new season started in six weeks and that he needed to be at the Katana HQ in Atlanta. The hurt of losing the Championship was fading now; Daryl knew he had this huge project to thank for that.

He went out onto the porch to see if there was any sign of Rick. He'd expected him over an hour ago, and Daryl was getting ansty – the roads around the house could be treacherous if it had been raining. He felt himself exhale as he finally heard Rick's truck coming up the path. As Rick got out, Daryl couldn't stop himself from looking him up and down, enjoying the sight of his bow-legged walk as he approached the porch.

Rick held up a bag.

"Brought some supplies for while we work. Some pretzels, sandwiches, potato chips..."

"That why the fuck you're late?" Daryl chastised. "Shoulda been here like fuckin' two hours ago."

"I know, but me and Lori were out, I mean today is..."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, c'mon in," Daryl cut him dead, and let the front door slam back against Rick as he followed Daryl inside.

Rick didn't owe him shit, he knew that. But that didn't mean he wanted to hear about fuckin' Lori.

They worked in easy silence outdoors for a few hours. Daryl enjoyed physical work, it cleansed his mind and kept his muscles supple. He knew Rick felt the same, as they cleared the yard of its array of junk and rusted machinery; stuff that had long since been hidden by nature – old moonshine jars, tyres, even a crossbow that his daddy and Uncle had used for hunting when he was a kid.

The afternoon was unseasonably warm, the mugginess exhausting. Daryl found himself glancing over at Rick every now and then, enjoying the sight of him in the long grass; it took him back to days lying in the meadow outside the Grimes ranch.

"Hot," Rick said, the first time either of them had spoken in over an hour.

Daryl nodded, watching as Rick pulled his sweat-soaked white t-shirt over his head. His thin body was shiny with sweat and seeping into the waistband of his black jeans. Daryl couldn't stop himself from staring as Rick raised his arms above his head to stretch his body. The sunlight hit Rick's face, illuminating his long nose and strong jawline. Daryl swallowed hard, pulling his smokes from his back pocket and lighting one. He leant against the porch as he smoked, watching Rick attempt to lift another tyre up, to no avail.

"Hey," Rick called, as he knelt down. "Can I get a hand over here? Weeds have grown right through the middle of this one."

Daryl joined him in kneeling, getting a buck knife out of his pocket and hacking away the long weeds. As he worked, he could have sworn that blue eyes were lingering on him, but each time he looked up, Rick was looking down at the tyre. Leaning forward, Daryl's nose was almost touching Rick's chest opposite. He watched as a trickle of sweat ran down it. He could smell Rick; warm and musky. The proximity was too much. Or maybe it was just the humidity. Either way, Daryl knew he had to move.

"Time for a drink," he suggested, and Rick nodded, standing up and wiping his hands.

Inside, they sat down at the rickety kitchen table and Rick took out two sandwiches, two cans of Coke, and two bags of potato chips. He handed Daryl a sandwich and a drink, and they both ate in silence.

"Good?" Rick asked.

"Yup," Daryl nodded.

Rick held up the chips.

"Barbecue or Buffalo Wing?"

Daryl pointed at the barbecue and Rick threw them at him.

"You know, I've really missed these long chats of ours," Rick smirked.

"Save yer energy for knocking down the porch fence instead of yappin'," Daryl retorted, scraping his chair across the floor as he stood up.

He walked outside, picking up a clawhammer and starting to remove the nails from the fence. Most of the wood was moss-covered and rotten, and he whistled for Rick to come over.

"You okay?" Rick asked.

"Reckon all this bitch needs is a few tugs and it'll come off without me removin' the nails."

Rick hunkered down, pulling at one side of the fence. It came away easily, so he moved towards Daryl's side to help him. Daryl stared at the way the muscles in Rick's arms flexed, and almost pulled his arm away as if burnt when Rick put his hand over the top of his to try to wrench the wood from the frame. Their fingers entwined and they both gave a grunt as the fence came away. An insect buzzed past Daryl's ear; the only sound apart from he and Rick's combined heavy breathing from the exertion.

"You good?" Rick asked, wiping the sweat from his brow. He was still shirtless.

Daryl nodded, then felt a sting on the outside of his hand. He held it up, seeing fresh blood.

"Must have scraped it against a fuckin' nail when we pulled the fence," he winced.

Rick took his hand to look at it.

"Those rusty nails could cook up a pretty good infection, Daryl," he warned. "You better get that cleaned. A hand injury's the last thing you need when we're racing in a few weeks."

Daryl nodded, knowing Rick was right, but exhausted at the thought of it.

"Kinda enjoyin' not talkin' about racin'," he admitted.

"Me too," Rick agreed.

Daryl sloped back inside and ran his hand under the kitchen tap, cursing the ancient plumbing not for the first time since he'd come back here. He watched Rick from out of the kitchen window, the way he was wiping his face with his damp t-shirt, then covering his face with his hands and shaking his head. Daryl looked down at his hand instead, not wanting to stare at what was clearly a private moment Rick was having. He bent down, ducking his head under the tepid trickle of water.

When he lifted his head, Rick was still standing outside in the same spot. He turned his head to look at Daryl through the window.

Their eyes met, and Daryl held his breath.

He watched as Rick slowly walked from the yard to the porch steps. Heard Rick's footsteps as he entered the lounge, then the kitchen. And then Rick's breath was on the back of his neck, reaching around Daryl's body to turn the tap off.

"Daryl," Rick whispered.

Daryl could feel the warmth of Rick's body, smell his sweat and sense his apprehension. He could stand still and wait for Rick to leave, or he could turn around.

Daryl felt the kind of light-headed nervous elation he got from racing, when he took pole position, or set a fastest lap. On a bike, when he took a chance, there was a fine line between crashing and winning.

Daryl could crash, or he could win.

He turned around.

Rick was looking at him with sleepy eyes, his mouth parted, gently moving his face closer. He brushed his nose against Daryl's, and Daryl gave an involuntarily gasp at that, the slightest of touches. Every nerve ending on his body felt like it was on fire as Rick's mouth met his in a slightly hesitant kiss. Daryl pulled away, seeing the consternation on Rick's face, and shook his head gently.

He stared at Rick as he slowly and deliberately unbuckled his belt and pulled his zipper down. Rick watched him, mouth agape and breathing audible. Daryl didn't even recognise his own voice as he told Rick to do the same.

Daryl helped Rick edge down his jeans so they were hanging just below his ass. Their belt buckles clinked together as Rick moved in for another kiss, deeper and hungrier this time. He gripped the sides of Daryl's head in his hands, running his fingers through his wet hair. Daryl reached around, yanking Rick's jeans down properly and then attempting to kick out of his own. The wriggling motion he made only caused his and Rick's rapidly hardening cocks to brush against one another, and he couldn't stop himself from emitting a guttural sob.

He felt Rick rut against him, and Daryl bit down hard onto his bottom lip. Fuck, he could come just from doing this. He could come right now, just shoot his load all over Rick's dick and the layers of denim between them.

"Wanna fuck you," Rick moaned, his cheeks high-coloured with arousal and shyness at his request. Daryl said nothing, just nodded, and reluctantly broke away as Rick let his jeans fall to his ankles, while Daryl removed his completely. It was awkward, and clumsy, but it still felt _right_.

Daryl tilted his head forward in anticipation of Rick's lips meeting his again, but instead he gasped as Rick dropped to his knees, and then all Daryl felt was the sensation of _wet_ as Rick's mouth explored between his legs, and his tongue dipped inside of him. Daryl gripped onto the kitchen counter he was leaning against, widening his stance to allow Rick's hot, slippery tongue to keep probing in and out of him, and to give Rick room to push his fingers inside, one at a time, stretching and pulling gently. Daryl's cock pulsated, and he tugged at Rick's hair to try to get him to stand up.

Daryl thought the sight of Rick's swollen, red mouth would be seared onto his brain forever. He kissed the plump lips with a need he'd never felt before, not caring about the unfamiliar taste. Rick's erection pressed against his inner thigh, demanding more.

Daryl managed to jump up to sit on the counter, and Rick pushed a hand between his knees to part them. Daryl wrapped his legs around the back of Rick's thighs.

"C'mon."

Daryl pressed a last kiss onto Rick's mouth before giving an aching groan as Rick drove his cock inside him. It felt like fire but like drowning too, like being complete, like this was the only thing that existed. Rick began to pummel into Daryl, the chords in his neck straining as he pulled Daryl from off the counter so that he and he alone was holding the both of them upright. If they both hadn't been so physically fit, they never would have been able to hold themselves in the position for long. Daryl jerked upwards with the force of a particularly hard thrust from Rick, and reached back to grab onto the handle of one of the cupboards. Rick pushed into him again, and Daryl's knuckles went white as he held onto the handle. He heard a cracking noise, and then it was breaking in two, sending Daryl's head crashing backwards against the cupboard door.

Rick caught the back of Daryl's head in his hands, his face paling immediately.

"Are you okay?"

Daryl gave a soft laugh.

"'M fine."

"Here, let me..."

Rick took Daryl's arms and pulled him back up towards his body. Daryl wrapped them around Rick's shoulders and buried his face in the crook of Rick's neck. Rick began to fuck him again, tentative at first until he knew Daryl was balanced, then resuming his earlier pounding.

Daryl bit onto Rick's freckled shoulder. He was close, his dick leaking and creating a slippery mess between his stomach and Rick's chest.

"Can't touch you," Rick gulped, barely able to catch a breath to speak. "No... hands... "

Daryl reached down to jerk himself off, and then he was coming in long, body-shaking streams. He cried out, barely aware of the kind of animalistic noises he was making, in this house where he'd always tried to stay so quiet.

"Ya can stay inside me," he said, in a half-sob, and was rewarded with a noise from Rick that was pure filth.

Rick moved them back against the counter, making an obscene noise as he came, his body shaking and twitching. Daryl held him close, still gripping onto Rick with his legs, trapping Rick there as his hips jerked shallowly, spurting inside Daryl until he fell down onto Daryl's chest, his curls brushing against Daryl's chin.

Daryl stroked Rick's hair briefly as if telling him _there, there_. Rick was heavy, and every part of Daryl's body suddenly ached. He wished they weren't in such an uncomfortable position and that it was inevitable that they would have to move, because Daryl knew that the second Rick lifted himself off his body, he would be gone. He was aware that there was a layer of dirt on the counter that they were lying against, and that there was nothing for them to clean up with, certainly no shower. But it still felt right.

"Gonna have to get up," Rick croaked. "Feel like I've high-sided and been thrown into a tyre wall."

Daryl grumbled as Rick pulled out of him and stood up, leaving him feeling cold, wet and sore. Rick pulled his jeans back up and looked around the room.

"There's a drum full of rainwater out the back," Daryl pointed weakly. "Ain't a power shower but you can clean up some with it."

By the time Rick came back inside, Daryl was in the lounge, pacing up and down anxiously. He'd wiped himself down with his shirt and put his vest back on, trying to think of parting words to say to Rick. He was coming up with nothing. He looked at Rick, red-faced and damp, and couldn't stop the words emitting from his lips.

"Dont... go," Daryl said in a quiet voice. "Know you prob'ly gotta, but... don't go."

Rick faced him.

"I'm not. I won't. I don't _want_ to."

*

Rick didn't think he'd ever forget walking back into the Dixon house to see Daryl standing there waiting for him, looking sex-flushed and wrecked.

He looked at his watch. _Fuck_.

"Sure you don't gotta be somewhere?" Daryl questioned.

Rick shook his head.

"Nowhere but here."

A sudden awkwardness filled the room. They'd eaten all the food Rick had brought, and there was no way any more work was being done today. They could talk – Christ knows there was a lot they could say to one another – but Rick knew that he and Daryl would sooner drown themselves in the rusted drum of rainwater out the back than actually say what they were thinking and feeling.

"Don't even have a chair for ya," Daryl eventually said.

"Hold on."

Rick went outside briefly, and returned with an old blanket he'd gotten from the back of the truck. He shook it out, dust particles flying everywhere, and laid it on the living room floor.

"Wow," Daryl commented drily, hand on hip. "Just like the Hilton. If we're lucky the roaches and the damp won't get to it before we do."

Rick sat down on it, cross-legged. He patted it to encourage Daryl to sit beside him, feeling his heart swell at Daryl's attempts not to smile.

Daryl joined him on the blanket with a long sigh. Rick lay back, moving his neck from side to side and feeling months worth of tension leaving his shoulders.

"Can you imagine what everyone would say if they saw us now?" he laughed softly. "The two most famous motorcycle racers in the entire damn country, sitting here like..."

"...Hillbilly trash?" Daryl sneered. "Yeah, I know what this place looks like."

"I love it," Rick said quickly. "I do. It's real."

Rick thought of the ranch. It was his home and the place he'd grown up in, with and without his mom. But sometimes the heavy mahogany furniture and beige scatter cushions felt claustrophobic; the way Lori had started leaving lingerie and vanilla scented candles in his bedroom cloying. The Dixon house was stripped bare in a way he wished his brain and emotions could be. Its previous stink of stale cigarette smoke and greasy cooking smells had been replaced by the scent of the wildflowers outside and the Douglas Fir that the cabin was made of, as if the original house was claiming itself back now that Will Dixon was gone.

Daryl joined him in laying down. Somehow, it was easier to talk like this, when Daryl's narrow eyes weren't focused on him, and the only sound was of the breeze blowing through the trees outside.

"I mean it," Rick told him, rubbing his hand across his stomach. "I haven't felt like this since... "

Daryl sat up on his elbow. Fuck, Rick had missed that furrowed brow and look of concern.

"Since when?"

"Since we were together in Hershel's team," Rick admitted. "Right before he told us that he was going to promote one of us."

Daryl sat up on his elbows, turning his head toward Rick in disbelief.

"Fuck man, that was what... two and a half, three years ago?"

"Guess so, Daryl."

"Fuck."

Daryl lay back down, lighting a cigarette before he did so, and blowing smoke rings up towards the damp-stained, cracked ceiling. The easy silence and smell of cigarettes took Rick back to his teenage bedroom, the meadow at the ranch, countless hotel rooms when they were in Supersport together. He breathed in through his nose and exhaled with a hum.

"You've _seen_ me," Rick began. "When I've not been able to breathe. The dizziness, like that fucking time you found me in a hotel room like that. Pretty much on my knees on the floor, like I was going to choke, or have a heart attack, or... I dunno. It's like... " Rick brought his knees up towards his chest. "It's like there's pressure in my head and if it builds up too much then I fucking _lose_ it, Daryl. But lying here now, I don't feel it. All that work we did outside, it's like it's released the build-up of all that shit in my mind, and then we... in the kitchen... and... "

He turned his head towards Daryl, who was doing the same. Listening intently and saying little, like he always did.

"Daryl, you've no idea how much last year fucked me up. Racing against you. Knowing I had to win or people would talk shit about how I wasn't as good as my dad. My head was..."

Rick waved his hands at either side of his head. Daryl just nodded.

"Weight of expectation," Daryl chimed in, and Rick nodded.

"I know we're rivals, I'm not stupid – our teams would hate it if we showed up at the first race all buddy-buddy..." Rick took a deep breath. "But do you think we can go back to that friendly rivalry we had when we were both racing for Hershel in Supersport?"

Rick looked at Daryl earnestly, holding his breath until Daryl's eyes softened and he nodded.

"Think with that asshole Walsh racin' with us, we gotta."

Rick sat up on his elbows to match Daryl's stance.

"Not talked to Shane in a while. He reckons we'll all have the 'big one' when it comes to crashes."

Daryl lay back down, blowing smoke from both nostrils.

"Hell, maybe _he_ will. He ain't us."

Rick turned onto his side, throwing a hand across Daryl's body. What was it about this dilapidated cabin that made him cut out the bullshit?

"Don't have the big one, Daryl."

Daryl huffed a laugh and stubbed his cigarette out on a broken part of the floor.

"Ain't plannin' to any time soon, Grimes."

Daryl's back was pressed hard against Rick's chest and stomach, the little spoon to his big spoon. Daryl felt solid and hot; so different to Lori's waif-like frame. He nuzzled his chin in the back of Daryl's neck, and Daryl grumbled good-naturedly about his stubble. Rick wrapped an arm around Daryl's waist, causing Daryl to wriggle uncomfortably.

"Sorry," Rick said. "Forgot you don't like this shit."

"Bet Lori does, huh?" Daryl replied, only the slightest tone of bitterness in his voice.

"...Yeah," Rick admitted. Lori liked to sleep in Rick's arms, craving close bodily contact and constant affection. So different from Daryl's aloofness.

Daryl rolled over onto his back, arm behind his head and eyes staring across at Rick quizzically.

"Ya love her?"

Rick felt his face colour and he blinked, before looking down at an imaginary loose thread on his jeans.

"'S okay if ya do," Daryl shrugged. "Yer the settlin' down kind, Grimes. You and I ain't ever goin' to be able to be anythin', so..."

Rick didn't reply. He knew Daryl was right; it wasn't realistic in their world, and Rick couldn't kid himself that anything between the two of them would ever be harmonious. They were too competitive, too similar in some ways and too different in others, too headstrong and stubborn.

"I don't love her," he told Daryl, whose mouth crooked up at the side despite himself when he heard that. "I'm not there yet. Think she might love me, though."

"Bigheaded prick," Daryl drawled.

"You mad about it? About me and her?" Rick asked tentatively, but Daryl shrugged.

"Used ta be. But we ain't kids any more. Ain't ever gonna be like it was when we were teenagers."

Rick nodded ruefully. This seemed like an ending, yet he was lying there, with Daryl's eyes looking up at him in a way that felt like a beginning. He put a hand under Daryl's chin, tipping his face up towards him. Daryl pressed a kiss to the pad of Rick's thumb, still staring.

"Felt like shit, Rick. About her, about the Championship." He closed his eyes, that old bashfulness taking over.

"I know. _I_ felt shit with the way you shut me out."

"I know. Could see it in ya, when I saw ya at the funeral. Ya got too skinny, Grimes."

"Stopped eating and sleeping for a bit, Daryl."

"Well I was smokin' and drinkin' too much."

"We're _assholes_."

"...Yup." Daryl smiled wrily.

Rick curved his body aroundight Daryl's again, with Daryl more accepting of it this time. His breathing slowed as he smoothed his palm down the side of Daryl's body. Daryl gave a contented little moan and wriggled back into Rick's chest. Rick pressed a kiss onto the back of Daryl's neck, the rough material of Daryl's vest tickling his chin. Rick bit against the material and pulled it down a little with his teeth. He licked a stripe up the nape of Daryl's neck, the taste of salty sweat thick on his tongue, and was rewarded with Daryl backing against him further. Rick gave a small jerk of his hips to meet Daryl's movements, enjoying the friction in his jeans. It felt innocent; the sensation of rutting against Daryl's ass took him back to their teenage fumbles back at the Grimes ranch.

And then Daryl was reaching down to unzip himself, before reaching back and grabbing Rick's hand, guiding it down underneath his jeans and underwear. Rick stroked him, enjoying the way Daryl's dick hardened beneath his touch, how Daryl pushed his entire body back into Rick's as Rick squeezed the thick cock in his fingers gently, circling his thumb around the moist head.

His arm began to ache, and his straining dick was uncomfortable in his jeans. Daryl gave a huff of disapproval as Rick snatched his hand away and sat up to discard his clothes once more. Daryl did the same.

"Ain't lettin' ya fuck me again," Daryl warned, as Rick straddled him. "Not so soon."

"Not what I had in mind," Rick breathed, grabbing Daryl's wrists and pinning them behind his head and against the floor. Daryl bucked upwards, as if to struggle away, and Rick gasped as their dicks made contact. Daryl did it again, this time with intention; wickedness in his eyes.

"Like that, huh, Grimes?" he asked raspily.

"Like looking at _you_ , when you're like this," Rick admitted, feeling the redness spread up his neck to his face.

He could _smell_ Daryl, smell _both_ of them – an afternoon and evening's worth of sweat and sex; earthy and heady. Rick's hair itched from the dust, and he could see pale red scratches on Daryl's forearms from the day's exertions.

"Quit starin'," Daryl eventually snapped, embarrassed. But his dick pressed against Rick's, demanding attention even if its owner didn't.

Rick wrapped his hand around the both of them, eliciting a ragged gasp from Daryl. Rick didn't think he would ever forget the sight of his and Daryl's reddened, slippery cocks gripped in his fist, as he began to move his hand up and down slowly. Squeezing, pulling, shallowly thrusting; pre-cum making his fingers slide against skin as he kept jerking the two of them off. Daryl writhed beneath him, telling him to keep going, that he was close, so close...

Rick dipped downwards to kiss him, and Daryl nipped his bottom lip with his teeth before sucking it between his lips. The wet, sharp sensation went straight to Rick's groin, and he flicked his wrist, hearing Daryl groan and feeling the wet release in his palm. Daryl's, then his, within seconds of each other; perfect.

*

They fucked once more, midnight by that time; Daryl on his back and Rick's body pleasantly warm and heavy on top of his. Slow and deep, right into the floor; the stretch of tired muscles, the hot breaths between swollen kiss-bitten lips, the fingers against quivering, damp skin. Rick couldn't believe that the boy he'd known who'd shied away from touch and kept Rick at arm's length for so long was now trembling beneath his kisses and the steady rhythm of his driving cock.

Daryl was looking straight into his eyes, the normal steel replaced by a softer blue.

"Daryl, I... " Rick began, as he gave a long, drawn-out thrust that sent Daryl's back arching up off the floor.

Daryl kissed his words away - maybe he didn't want to hear them out loud, but Rick knew there was no fucking way Daryl wasn't aware what the end of his sentence was going to be. Rick gasped out that he was going to come, and when he did, Daryl held onto him tightly enough to leave bruises. He kissed Rick's shoulder, guiding Rick's hand to his own dick so he could join him in climax.

It was a long time before they both released their grip on each other, shivering now, and covered in beads of sweat. Rick was still inside Daryl as he placed kisses onto his forehead, his closed eyelids, his mouth.

"Rick..." Daryl began, but he didn't seem to be able to find the words to finish.

Rick nodded once, lightly stroking the side of Daryl's face; tracing his sharp cheekbones with a fingertip, and placing his thumb against the small mole at the side of Daryl's mouth tenderly. The way Daryl was silently looking up at him, calmness in his sharp eyes for once made Rick feel like he was falling.

*

Daryl lingered at the front door awkwardly, rubbing his noise and tugging at the bottom of his vest as he waited for Rick to get his things together before leaving. It was pitch black outside and he wasn't entirely sure that Rick could find his way home again from here in the dead of night.

"Sorry fer keeping ya fer so long," he sniffed.

Rick gave a soft cackle as he pulled his t-shirt on and looked around the floor for wherever he had discarded his keys.

"Scared I'll fall asleep at the wheel," he said, rubbing a hand across his forehead. "It's been a tiring day."

"Yup, it has. Ya sure ya didn't have plans with her?" Daryl looked down at the floor, not really wanting to hear the answer. For the past ten hours, Rick had been _his_. Just his.

Rick took a step towards him.

"Well... I did, Daryl."

"Ya shoulda said. Hope it wasn't anythin' special."

"She'll get over it." Rick shrugged. "Plenty of reasons why I didn't show up tonight. Flat tyre, bad roads. You know?"

Daryl shifted from one foot to the other nervously as Rick approached, coat on and keys in hand. He opened the front door, and the moon invited itself into the sparse lounge, bouncing its light off their faces.

"Rick..."

Rick wrapped a hand around Daryl's jaw, and Daryl's head tipped back in anticipation of Rick's kiss. It was brief but searing, a victim of weariness and of sore lips that had been kissed too much that day.

Rick pressed his forehead against Daryl's.

"Happy Valentine's Day," Rick whispered.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was a bit of a change of pace. Hope a break from the angst was welcome for everyone ;)
> 
> Not to sound like a broken record, but thanks so much to all readers and commenters. Reading comments makes me so, so happy and makes me want to keep writing even more than I already do :)
> 
> Been too busy with work recently to start writing Chapter 13, but it will get done and posted as soon as is physically possible.


	13. 13.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lori, well that was just something Daryl had accepted. Rick wanted the white picket fence, no matter how much he refused to admit it. And Daryl wasn't going to deny Rick that. They'd both grown up without their moms, without a proper family – whatever that meant - and Daryl could see that she gave him something that Rick missed and needed. Comfort, normality, the dream... whatever. Wasn't like he and Rick could ever play house, wasn't like they could attend events together all dressed up, wasn't like what they did could ever be out in the open._
> 
>  
> 
> _No, it suited Daryl to be hidden away up here, with his dog and a garage that was increasingly filling with vintage bikes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for how long it's taken to get this chapter out, but life has been pretty (very) difficult of late, and I completely lost my motivation to write and my mind was drawing a blank when it came to being creative. So, this chapter could definitely be edited better but onwards and upwards to the next one!
> 
> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/  
> I also post updates there about posting times and how far behind I am!

**One year later**

"So how does it feel?" Michonne held her glass of white wine up and clinked it against Daryl's beer bottle.

"How does _what_ feel? Being the 1998 Champ or finally getting this place finished?" Daryl asked.

"Both," Michonne smiled, smoothing a hand along the distressed brown leather of the couch.

"It feels like I need to sleep for a million fuckin' years," Daryl retorted, reaching down to grab a log from the basket and throw it onto the fire. Outside, the breeze rippled through the trees as the sky darkened. Fuck, it was beautiful up here – all those years being so scared of his daddy, he'd never noticed how tranquil this place could be.

He loved this house, now. Felt like he and Rick had baptised it that day a year ago, on the floor right beneath his feet that was now varnished and shining. Michonne had sorted him out with all the stuff he knew jack shit about – plates and throws and pillows; soft grey bedlinen and old bedroom furniture and lamps that she'd found in some trendy vintage store Daryl wouldn't dream of setting a foot in. He didn't need much; his lounge had the sofa, a coffee table that Richard Grimes had given him, and a framed black and white photo of him on his motorcycle that Michonne had presented him with after he'd won the Championship a few months back. It was still leaning against one wall, waiting to be hung. He'd probably never get around to doing it. Seemed like a bigheaded thing to have.

"Anyone visited asides from me?" Michonne asked.

"Like who?"

"Like... any guys?"

"Fuck off."

She opened to mouth to speak, then closed it again.

"What?" Daryl asked, already guessing what she was going to say.

"Rick been here?"

"Few times."

"As a friend?"

"Yup."

"He still with that Lori girl?"

"...Yup."

Michonne rolled her eyes.

" _Great_ chat. Also, you know, I bought you all that nice glassware and crockery in case you wanted to bring someone up here for a _date_."

"The fuck do I need all that for when beer already comes in a bottle, huh?"

"Caveman," Michonne rolled her eyes.

Daryl poked her arm with a stubby finger.

"Thanks, 'Chonne. For all this shit."

"It was nothing," she smiled, setting her empty glass down. "It's a small price to pay for you giving Katana its first ever Championship."

She stretched out, yawned, and looked at her watch.

"It's pathetically early, but I'm beat. Better go, I have to be at the office at 8am tomorrow."

"Text me when you get home, okay?"

"I will, Daryl."

Daryl stood on the porch and watched Michonne's Audi disappear down the hill. He took his mobile phone out of his pocket, typing slowly. He hated having this fucking thing, but Michonne had been a pain in his ass until she'd finally convinced him to get one. Daryl had to admit that it was pretty damn convenient at the minute.

_SHE JUST LEFT_

It didn't take long until the mobile beeped.

_Finally!! About 30 mins away. See u soon._

_OK_

Rick arrived after 25 minutes; Daryl opening the front door as soon as Rick's foot hit the bottom step of the porch, and then they were stumbling inside, mouths pressed together and arms around one another, laughing and smiling as Jack barked happily at their feet.

"She suspect anything yet?" Rick mumbled through the kiss.

"Nope," Daryl replied, enjoying the feel of Rick's lips against his, and the heat from the fire. Maybe this was what happiness felt like. "You?"

"Told Lori I was meeting a sponsor."

"Ain't right for me to lie to Michonne, but she'd kick our asses if she knew we were going behind Lori's back," Daryl said.

"Yeah," Rick agreed. "You're a braver man than I am, lying to her."

"Well, yer lyin' to Lori."

"I am – but she's not as scary as Michonne is."

They kissed again, warm and hungry, before Rick moved his mouth away.

"You want another beer?" he asked, pointing to Daryl's sole empty bottle.

"Just one more. Three's my limit these days, you know that."

Rick disappeared into the kitchen, and Daryl closed his eyes in contentment as he heard the clinking of bowls and glasses, and the tear of a plastic bag as Rick opened up a bag of tortilla chips to make nachos. He was singing too, that fucking _Oh baby, baby_ tune... the one with the chick in the video in her school uniform; pile of crap.

"Shut up!" Daryl hollered, and was rewarded by Rick singing even louder. Didn't matter, there wasn't anyone else around for miles up here.

Just over a year ago, they'd been lying on the floor in front of where Daryl was currently sitting. A Championship stolen from him, a hated father who had just died, and a wreck of a house that looked more trouble than it was worth.

It had been him and Rick all season again, fighting for the Championship. Daryl had gotten it fair and square this time; Katana had had the edge on Team Greene towards the end of the season, and he'd won it with one race to go. It had been a good, clean battle with Rick all year. As always, the media had tried to stir things up between them, and in public, they'd played it up – but in private, Rick had been back to sneaking to his hotel room after each race, and up here in this house when he was able to get a free evening away from Lori.

And Lori, well that was just something Daryl had accepted. Rick wanted the white picket fence, no matter how much he refused to admit it. And Daryl wasn't going to deny Rick that. They'd both grown up without their moms, without a proper family – whatever that meant - and Daryl could see that she gave him something that Rick missed and needed. Comfort, normality, the dream... whatever. Wasn't like he and Rick could ever play house, wasn't like they could attend events together all dressed up, wasn't like what they did could ever be out in the open.

No, it suited Daryl to be hidden away up here, with his dog and a garage that was increasingly filling with vintage bikes. He refused to sleep in his daddy's old bedroom, so that was the spare room now, full of richly-coloured blankets and heavy furniture that Michonne had picked out for him. He had no need for a guest bedroom really – the only person that had ever stayed over was Rick, and he stayed in Daryl's bed. Still felt weird, to be sleeping in the room he'd shared with Merle. The rickety bedframes and mattresses with broken springs of old had long since gone, replaced by a double bed, soft sheets, and a view of the surrounding woods. After Rick stayed over, Daryl always waited a few days before washing the sheets; enjoying how the scent of him still lingered on the bedlinen.

Rick came back into the lounge, the bowl of nachos and two beers in his hands. He picked up the television remote to switch it on, but Daryl smacked it out of his hand.

"Ain't nothin' on."

Daryl plonked his legs on top of Rick's thick thighs, taking a handful of chips and shoving them into his mouth. Living alone suited him, but man, he had to admit he enjoyed Rick being here, even if he was messy. Another reason why it probably suited Rick to have a woman.

They both drank their beers, chatting about the season ahead. It pleased Daryl to see Rick's eyes light up when he talked about racing again. Even if Daryl had beaten him, the anxiety and panic attacks of the year that they hadn't spoken had disappeared. _That's because of you_ , Rick had told him more than once – and Daryl, rather than feeling the weight of that kind of responsibility, found he revelled in it. He'd never known what it was like to be needed. He kind of liked it.

Daryl moved his legs from Rick, leaning in to kiss him, all warm, beery breath.

"We fuckin'?" he breathed.

"Thanks for that polite offer, but I stink," Rick mumbled through the kiss. "Can I get a shower first?"

"Nope," Daryl replied, easing off Rick's shirt and burying his nose in the crook of Rick's neck, inhaling salty skin and traces of cologne. "Like the smell of ya." He pulled away, wrinkling his nose. "...Unless ya been fuckin' Lori before me."

Rick shook his head quickly, grabbing the side of Daryl's shaggy hair.

"No. Didn't see her today. Saving it for the weekend – it's her birthday on Sunday."

Birthdays and anniversaries, Rick was that kind of guy. Another thing the two of them would never do. Birthdays had always mostly passed Daryl by.

"How nice," Daryl sneered, unzipping his jeans and feeling Rick wriggle beneath him to do the same.

Rick lifted his face up to kiss Daryl.

"Having a party for her at the ranch. You can come."

"Ya better be takin' the piss, Grimes. Me an' her ain't ever been in the same room and I ain't plannin' on changin' that."

"Well, the offer's there."

Daryl laughed harshly, pulling his t-shirt off and arching his back in pleasure as Rick mouthed against his neck.

"Ya couldn't cope with the stress of both of us bein' there. I'm lettin' ya off the hook on this one."

He gripped Rick around the back of his head, hardening at the feel of Rick's wet tongue against his lightly-haired chest. Sometimes he thought he could come just from the way Rick licked and sucked his nipples; those plump lips encircling them; tongue prodding against Daryl's super-sensitive skin. He'd never felt like this with anyone else but Rick – wanting to touch and _be_ touched. Not all the time, mind. Sometimes he'd edge away from Rick, not feeling like it. Rick was too good, he always understood, even if sometimes it left him hard as a rock and unsatisfied, like he'd always been when they were teenagers. But when Daryl wanted it, he wanted it so bad that he could scream. Like now.

"So I won't see ya this weekend, then?" he tried to keep the sulky tone from his voice.

Rick pulled away, and Daryl moaned at the loss of his lips from his skin.

"No. I know it's our last one before we're back racing, but..."

Daryl pressed Rick's face back against his left nipple again and reached down to wrap a hand around Rick's cock.

"'S fine. I'll see ya on the racetrack, Grimes," he said gruffly. "Fuck me good enough now to make it count."

*****

Rick knew he'd never remember the names of every person seated around the table at Lori's house – there were grandparents, cousins, second cousins, family friends... Her mom was Annie, her dad Alan, and her little sister was Rebecca; Rick made sure he remembered _that_ much.

Annie had made beef pot roast - huge steaming bowls of it with buttery mashed potatoes and gravy too. Then peach cobbler for dessert, sweet and covered in thick cream. Rick protested that he was in training, now that the season had started, but the starchy, warm food lay heavy and comforting in his belly, and it made him think of his mom wearing floral oven gloves and taking pies out of the oven.

"A bit of home cooking won't do you any harm, son," Alan told him, patting his own rotund stomach. "You've earned it after winning the first two races this year. Dixon ran you close in that last one, but you've got the measure of him."

"Thank you. He did." Rick felt his face redden when Daryl was mentioned, and he quickly changed the subject.

After Lori and her mother had cleared all the plates away, Alan disappeared and came back with a tray of mint juleps. The sharp tang of the bourbon made Rick think of Daryl. Painful, guilty thoughts.

"Not really much of a drinker, sir," Rick said, putting a hand over the top of his glass when Alan made to top it up. "A few beers, sure, but I've never been into hard liquor."

"Good for you, son," Alan beamed, slapping Rick on the back. "Plenty of time for that when you're old like me. Lori's mother, now she hates me drinking hard liquor normally, but I was able to get away with it tonight, what with you being a special guest and all."

He leaned towards Rick as if he was about to tell him a secret.

"You know what it's like, I'm sure, Rick. Got to keep the women happy, and God knows Lori is exactly like her mother." He gave a booming laugh. "Am I right or am I right?"

Rick took a sip, and nodded wordlessly. If Lori was like her mother in that regard, he sure hadn't seen it. Yet.

When the array of relatives left, and Rebecca was put to bed, Rick joined Lori and her parents out on their patio, where Annie brought out coffee. The patio looked onto sweeping, landscaped gardens, and Alan proudly gestured to the brand new barbecue grill in the corner.

"Maybe some day we can have a cookout, Rick. Your mom and dad are more than welcome to come, of course."

Rick swirled his coffee around in his mouth.

"My dad would love that, sir. But my mom, she's passed."

Alan's face paled.

"I'm sorry, Rick, I'm an insensitive ass. I've always followed your dad's career, and I should have remembered that."

"It's okay, sir."

"Call me Alan," he patted Rick's arm. "Consider us family. Or at least, maybe some day." He winked, and Rick took another drink.

They were good people; people he knew his dad would like. Alan had what seemed like an encyclopaediac knowledge of US Superbike history, rhyming off all off his dad's results, and talking enthusiastically about races that Rick had never even seen.

"We have a little beach house down in Florida, too," he said. "Maybe one day you'd like to join us on holiday."

"Sure."

"Would love to have you there. Lori and Rebecca have their own room, and there'd be a spare room for just you, of course."

Rick nodded solemnly. The message was loud and clear. _Not under my roof_.

Annie lit a citronella candle and switched on the fairy lights that were hanging from the surrounding trees. Lori gave a shiver, and Rick immediately wrapped his jacket around her shoulders. He noted the pleased expression on Alan's face.

"We'll let you two kids have some alone time," Alan said, motioning to Annie for them both to leave Rick and Lori alone.

Lori snuggled in tightly against Rick when her parents were gone. Rick liked the way she was around them – more sweet and homely. A nice girl.

"They like you," she beamed.

"I like them too," Rick nodded. "I think your dad will kick my ass if I don't win the Championship this year, though."

Lori yawned. "Yeah, he's always been a fan of your dad, and of Hershel's team, too. Me dating you gives him something to boast about to the boys down at the golf club."

"Oh yeah?" Rick teased. "That why you like me? To keep your dad happy?"

"Doesn't hurt," Lori pinched him on the arm, before tilting her head back a little and giving him a searching look.

"What?"

"You look... happy," Lori mused. "More than maybe I've seen you since we first met."

"I _am_ happy."

"Because of me?"

Rick put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed. He thought of the smell of the pine trees around Daryl's cabin.

"All you."

*

_"With me now in the pitlane is Katana's Team Principal, Michonne Anthony. Michonne, what are your thoughts on that coming together between your rider Daryl Dixon, and Rick Grimes? Is this going to ignite that bitter rivalry they had two years ago?"_

_"I don't think so, Dale. Daryl's the reigning Champion and I doubt he's going to be bothered by what I see as nothing more than a minor scuffle on track."_

_"Rick won the race today after some might say – pushing – his way past Dixon on that last lap. We, and everyone at home, saw how he left a hell of a lot of scrapes up the side of Dixon's bike's fairing."_

_"He did, but that's racing."_

_"Grimes has won three races this year to Dixon's one."_

_"I'm thrilled that you can count. It's still very early in the season, Dale. I have every confidence that the tide will turn in Katana's favour sooner rather than later. We're doing all we can at the factory to give Daryl the bike that he deserves."_

_"Thanks for your thoughts, Michonne. Well ladies and gents, what a race for the Team Greene fans today! Next up we have... oh wait... let me just listen to my earpiece for a second here folks... I'm getting reports that Daryl Dixon has been seen going into Rick Grimes' motorhome. I guess he wants to have a few words about that savage move Grimes put on him this afternoon. We'll have more on that after this advert break..."_

"Well, ain't ya just havin' yer cake an' eatin' it lately, Rick?" Daryl sat down on the frayed couch in the Team Greene motorhome, sweating and irritated after the race.

Rick was still in his leathers too, his head in the fridge in dire need of hydration. He picked out a bottle of water and threw Daryl a can of Coke. He was as red-faced and exhausted as Daryl was.

"You pissed?" Rick asked, standing up to face him. It had been a rough move, overtaking Daryl on the outside on the last lap like that. Rough but fair.

"Nah," Daryl drained his Coke in two gulps; his sweet tooth always worse after a hard race. "Was a dick move, but I'd have done the same."

"Press are outside," Rick gave a nod at the door.

"So fuckin' what."

Rick sat back into the couch.

"So they think we're having a bust-up."

Daryl stood up and walked to the door. He turned the handle, moving it up and down a few times. Definitely locked. He turned his attention to the window.

"That one-way? Like in a line-up?"

Rick raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"If you mean that we can see out, but nobody can see in, then yeah."

Daryl was high on post-race adrenalin; juiced up and in that headspace of wanting to fight or fuck. He didn't want to fight Rick, but fucking hell, what an _asshole_ move he'd put on him in the race.

"On the floor," he growled.

Rick started to laugh, but then realised that Daryl's expression was completely serious. He held his hands above his head as if he was being held up in a robbery, and dropped to his knees. Daryl joined him, then pushed Rick onto his back, his knee between Rick's thighs. Their leathers creaked as they moved against one another; Daryl pressing his knee right between Rick's legs, and Rick moving up and down slowly in an attempt to create some friction. Daryl kissed him, feeling his cock swell as much as his restrictive racesuit would allow.

"Dammit," he spat, attempting to pull Rick's leathers off his shoulders and down his arms to no avail. "Can see why we ain't never fucked right after a race before."

Rick laughed as Daryl stood up, holding out a hand to pull Rick up off the floor. They both shrugged themselves out of their leathers; Rick pulling off the lycra undershirt he also wore underneath. Daryl watched him pull them down past his waist with a quickening heartbeat before doing the same. He reached out to run a hand from Rick's navel to his collarbones, feeling the hot, sweaty, sticky skin. Rick's mouth parted, and then they were on the floor again, kicking their legs to try to get their racesuits down around their ankles; too impatient to wrestle off their boots to take everything off. It was hot, lying there half-naked; half in their leathers – Daryl grabbed one of Rick's hands in each of his, and pinned them against the floor behind Rick's head.

"Bet ya think ya were so clever on track, huh. Who's lying here _now_ like a bitch?"

Daryl noted with pleasure how Rick's cock twitched at Daryl's harsh words. Must have been the race got him all talking like this. Or maybe, he couldn't stop himself from thinking, he was silently competing with _her_. Because no way did she make Rick moan the way he was right now. No way did his voice crack when he was pleading _Oh God let me fuck you_. No way did his dick get as hard with her.

Daryl bucked forwards, the underside of his dick slipping against Rick's. He did it again, licking a stripe up the side of Rick's face as he did so. One more jerk and he knew if he didn't stop, he'd come before he wanted to. Rick squeezed him hard around the waist suddenly, making him stop, and then rose up to nip Daryl's bottom lip.

" _Enough_."

Daryl felt Rick grip onto his leg with his strong thighs, and then he was being turned around and being pushed down onto his back with a thud. Rick loomed above him.

"What was that about lying there like a bitch, _Daryl_?" he whispered dangerously. "You're the one on the floor now. You're the one who's going to get _fucked_."

Daryl could barely speak with how hard he was, but he managed to gasp out a reply.

"Talk to her like that, do ya? Nah, bet ya wouldn't fuckin' dare."

"Shut your mouth," Rick hissed, bending down to slip his tongue inside Daryl's mouth. Daryl resisted the temptation to bite down onto it; yeah, that'd learn him. Instead he yelped as Rick pushed fingers inside him, no warning, no hesitation.

Sore and fucking stupid, that's what Daryl was. Letting Rick fuck him like this, too quick and with a condom Rick had grabbed from his bag that was no doubt meant for using with _her_ later on. Sore, fucking stupid, agonisingly good. Rick made him arch off the floor, made him beg, made him damn near almost cry; rocking into him so hard and fast that he wondered if the whole motorhome was shaking. _That'd_ give the press something to talk about.

He looked up at Rick's face. His eyes were closed and his face looked pained as he kept thrusting.

"Come if ya want," Daryl said.

Rick's whole body shook and he made a noise that sounded anguished as he let go. Daryl held onto him, letting him ride it out, before shaking his shoulder.

"Don't you dare collapse on top of me, Grimes."

Rick pulled out of him, moving downwards and bringing Daryl to climax with his tongue. Daryl grunted as he emptied himself into Rick's mouth.

Daryl rolled over onto his side and pushed Rick away. He was too hot and still pissed off. Rick joined him on his side, resting his head on his elbow. The look of his damp curls, sweaty forehead, and soft, pink lips had Daryl not knowing whether he wanted to punch him or fuck him again. He settled for being an asshole, reaching out to prod a finger into Rick's chest. Rick's skin sizzled.

"Gonna go and stick yer dick in her now, huh?"

"No. I'm exhausted."

"Cry me a river."

" _Daryl_."

"It's like I said... ya been havin' yer cake an' eatin' it. No fuckin' wonder yer tired."

"This about me winning today? You being pissy with me?"

"Nope. I'll get ya at some other race."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm sayin'... hell, I dunno what I'm sayin'."

Rick pressed his thumb against Daryl's bottom lip. Daryl bit down, it was warm and fleshy at the bottom, hard at the top where Rick's nail was. He wanted to bite down harder, he wanted to make Rick _hurt_.

*****

Rick arrived home from the airport after a tough race. He'd come second, behind Shane. Daryl's engine had blown up, probably killing his hopes of a second Championship along with it. Rick had gone to Daryl's hotel room after the race, and they'd talked. Just talked. Daryl had been understandably irritable – he was reigning US Champion and it was looking less and less like he would retain his title. Dealing with Daryl at his most monosyllabic was something Rick was good at most of time, but on days like these, it was better to leave Daryl be.

In a way, it was comforting to walk into the kitchen at the ranch to find a smiling Lori there, telling him to shower and unpack while the lasagne she had made finished cooking. She'd had a stomach bug for the past few days and had had to miss the race weekend.

Rick sighed happily at the smell of garlic and bubbling cheese, grabbing Lori around the waist and pulling her back against his body. He buried his face in the back of her neck, the smell of Italian food being replaced by her perfume. She took his hands in hers and pressed them against her lips. God, this was all so easy.

He showered, threw his clothes in the laundry and walked into his bedroom. His bedding had been changed, and it smelt of fresh cotton fabric softener. A freshly ironed pair of sweat pants and a new t-shirt had been placed on the edge of the bed, and as he finished pulling them on, he heard Lori call up the stairs.

"Dinner's ready."

Rick walked downstairs, whistling to himself and taking the bottom three stairs in one jump. She had lit candles and poured him a glass of beer.

She sat down opposite as Rick piled food onto his plate.

"A glass of red wine would go better with that, you know. Dad has loads in the cellar."

Rick shook his head, chewing. He pointed his fork at Lori's glass of water and plate of toast.

"You still sick?"

"No, I'm feeling much better now. A couple of days of puking is great for weight loss anyway."

"Don't be ridiculous," Rick rolled his eyes. "You're slim enough already. You're perfect as you are."

Lori's expression was one of pure joy at that, and she urged Rick to finish his meal.

"Your dad won't be back for another few hours," she smiled, raising an eyebrow.

Rick wiped his mouth with a napkin, looking down at Lori's small breasts in the black lacy vest top she was wearing. She saw where his gaze was directed, and tugged her top down further.

"You're bad," Rick laughed, standing up and beginning to clear the table of plates.

"Just put them in the dishwasher," Lori implored, sliding a hand down the front of Rick's sweat pants. Her hand was tiny compared to Daryl's; her touch less practiced, but Rick was relaxed and pliant, feeling sleepy and satisfied from a good meal and a warm home.

He led Lori up to his room – their room, one day, maybe – and laid her down on the bed. Rick was more confident when it came to this now, maybe even pretty damn good. He could certainly control himself more than he did with Daryl. He wasn't sure Lori would like hearing the kind of filth that spilled from his mouth when he was inside Daryl.

Rick twisted her long hair around his hand and yanked her head back gently. Lori's eyes widened in surprise and her legs widened as Rick mouthed at her neck, sucking and biting the skin. She started panting, and Rick reached down to feel her wetness. Lori ground against his hand, before getting up to straddle him. Her long hair swept against Rick's skin as she rode him hard, crying out _You're so good, you're so good_ and that she was going to come. Rick felt her contract around him, and he bucked upwards as he came inside her.

"So you really _are_ feeling better, then," he said breathlessly.

She slid her hands down Rick's chest before lying down against his chest.

"Never had a guy who could last as long as you," she whispered, running her fingers through Rick's chest hair. "You been practicing without me?"

Rick laughed harshly.

"Don't be stupid."

"Just kidding," she smiled. "I got one of the nice guys, I know that."

*

Rick had arrived late. It was a Friday night, Lori was away for the weekend with friends, and _still_ Rick had been late. Daryl was in a pissy mood; from that, from his crappy season, and from the fact that Jack wasn't eating.

Rick had brought three steaks, some potato salad, and a box of beer. He didn't apologise for not arriving when he said he would, just walked into the kitchen and started to heat up the pan for the meat. Rick was beginning to enjoy cooking, and normally Daryl liked to watch him work. Left to his own devices, Daryl probably would just eat things cold and straight from the tin.

Daryl leant against the kitchen doorframe, accepting a beer.

"You were late."

"Friday night traffic," Rick shrugged, placing the slabs of meat onto a chopping board.

"How comes _she_ normally gets ya at weekends?" Daryl took a drink.

"Because that's when people see their significant others," Rick replied airily. "And you get me on _race_ weekends. And on Thursday nights."

"Yeah, yer dirty little Thursday night secret, ain't I?" Daryl couldn't resist from snapping. "Surprised you have a dick left, been stickin' it in so many different people."

Rick finally turned around to face him, wiping his hands on a cloth.

"Two people," Rick's voice was monotone. Daryl could tell it was going to be hard to get a rise out of Rick. Much like pulling at a ragnail, Daryl wanted to see how close he could get.

"Yeah well, hope yer wearin' a rubber with her too."

"She's on the pill. But of _course_ I do."

"Hmmph."

Daryl took another swig.

"What are you _asking_ me, Daryl?" Rick's brow was furrowed.

Daryl shrugged, lighting a cigarette. Rick glanced at the food on the counter, and Daryl stubbed it right out. Fuck sake.

"Ain't askin' you anythin'. Just gettin' sick an' tired of all of this."

"You always told me we'd never work anyway," Rick threw his hands up desperately. "You never asked me to make a choice between you and her."

Daryl looked down at the lighter in his hands as he twirled it.

"'Cause I ain't ever _been_ anyone's first choice, so why bother."

He looked up, saw the pained expression in Rick's blue eyes, then quickly looked down again. Was that pain sympathy, or guilt? Or was it the dawning of the realisation that they couldn't go on as they were. Daryl didn't plan on ever trying to find someone, he'd never wanted anyone, Rick was an anomaly in his life – but he didn't want to be someone's secret either. And what did he have to offer? Nothing.

"I don't need this," Daryl shrugged.

"I don't _need_ it either. I'm here 'cause I _want_ to be."

"An' you want all the shit that you couldn't get with _just_ me, too."

"Such as?"

"Playin' happy families. Comin' home each night to dinner on the table. Christmas and birthdays. Kids runnin' around. You ain't gonna get that with me, and you can't deny that it's what you want your life to be like. Just like yer dad."

"Are you... are you telling me this is done? You _want_ this to be done?" Rick's voice cracked. Daryl hated that he had made it sound like that.

Daryl made to answer, but couldn't think of anything to say. So he just stood there.

" _Wow,"_ Rick took a step backwards."Right before a race weekend, too. This your fucked-up way of trying to mess my head up so you win?"

"Mind games ain't ever been a tactic of mine, you fuckin' know that."

Rick turned around and busied himself with preparing the food. The smell of the steak as Rick placed them onto the searing-hot pan was mouthwatering. When Rick cut the third steak up into small pieces, and bent down to offer Jack some, Daryl walked right over and kissed the back of his neck.

"Jus' fuckin' jealous, okay," he whispered.

Rick tipped his head backwards and pulled Daryl's hand to his chest.

"If you asked me to make a choice... "

"I never would, Grimes."

_"_ I know you wouldn't. Knowing that you wouldn't makes that choice easier."

_*_

Daryl made his way back from the press conference. He'd won today, but only because Rick had had brake problems and not been able to challenge him. The Katana bike wasn't good this season, and it was a miracle Daryl was able to drag wins out of it at all. It was halfway through the season and his reputation was going higher and higher the worse his bike got. Things like _one of the all time greats_ and _the_ _best of his generation_ were beginning to be said, and sometimes it made Daryl just want to run off to his cabin and never come back out again.

There were photographers trailing him as he walked down the paddock, so he dived in between two motorhomes, hoping to lose them. He hoped he wouldn't run into Rick, who sometimes did the same, or fucking Shane, who brought girls back here.

He slowed down as he heard someone crying, then paced gently towards the back of a motorhome.

"Shit, sorry," he put his hands up as he saw someone with dark hair and long legs leaning against it, rubbing her eyes and gently sobbing.

Daryl swore inwardly as she looked up at him. It was Lori. He shuffled from foot to foot awkwardly, wincing at her messed-up eye make-up and puffy face.

"Ya okay?" Man, he sucked at this kind of crap with anyone, let alone her. He was tired and thirsty after the race, and some bullshit female drama wasn't exactly on his agenda.

"No," she whimpered, looking up at him with small brown eyes. Daryl realised that he'd never spoken a word to her before. He wasn't even sure he'd looked her in the eye before. Girl seemed genuinely distraught about something. Fuck, Daryl wanted nothing more than to get his leathers off and get back to the hotel for food and a smoke. An idea came into his mind. Smoking was a distraction; a leveller.

"You want a cigarette?" he asked under his breath.

"I don't smoke, not normally," she replied. "But sure."

"Follow me."

Within minutes, Lori was sitting on the couch in Daryl's motorhome, leaning towards him as he held out a lighter. Rick's voice slithered into his mind as she sat back, exhaling as her shaking fingers held the cigarette. _You're soft as shit underneath your asshole exterior, Daryl._

"Didn't know you smoked," Lori said with a cough. Daryl leant against the door, shrugging. She looked young and vulnerable. And pretty, he had to give her that much. Didn't hate her – wasn't her fault that she'd gotten involved in a mess that she knew nothing about. Didn't like her either, but he wouldn't see a girl in a state like that without at least trying to help.

"Why would ya?"

"True," she took a long draw. She looked green. "Don't know much about you, even with you and Rick growing up together."

Daryl said nothing, just twirled his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger.

"You don't say much. You're like Rick that way." She sat back on the couch, and Daryl glanced at her tanned legs and stilettos. She noticed. Girl probably thought it was an admiring glance, but he felt nothing.

"Nothin' to say. Just wouldn't leave ya cryin' outside, is all."

Her face contorted into an expression of disgust.

"I'm sure you know why I was crying, Daryl."

"Nope. What women cry about ain't no business of mine."

She shook her head, clucked her tongue.

"Well then you should know that your good buddy Rick dumped me before the race."

Daryl kept his expression as neutral as possible. He scratched his head, took a long drag, stubbed out his cigarette and then lit another.

"Sorry for that."

Lori wiped her eyes, swiping mascara across her cheekbones. Her eyes were dark, her hair wild. Daryl wondered if she looked like that after Rick fucked her. Wasted, ruined, like _he_ always was.

"Yeah," she put her head in her hands. "Said it was too much, being with me. Said he didn't know what he wanted. What is there to know?" She gulped. "...I thought he'd marry me."

Damn it all to hell, the girl was broken. Daryl sat down beside her, and she gratefully pushed her face into his chest. She sobbed, cursing Rick's name one minute, then saying how much she loved him the next. When she pulled away, she looked at Daryl with pleading eyes.

"Why?"

"Hell, I dunno why men do the things they do."

"You're a man. Tell me."

"I dunno."

"Is it because I'm not pretty enough?" she pouted.

Daryl began to sweat. Bringing her in here had been a stupid idea.

"Nah, no way."

"You think I'm pretty?"

She wriggled next to him until her body was nestled against his on the couch.

"Pfft, I dunno, I..."

"'Cause _you're_ hot, I mean, you must know that..."

Daryl didn't know shit about women, but he knew an attempt at revenge when he saw it. He knew a mistake made out of upset and hurt, too. He pulled away.

"Best get you back to... wherever."

He stood up, and Lori looked up at him, indignant as well as upset now.

"You fucking riders are all the same."

*

Rick sat down onto the sofa. He glanced at his mobile, wincing when he saw that Lori had texted him four times. He didn't want to be the kind of asshole that ignored a girl's messages, but he didn't know what else to say to her. The thought that he had been cheating on her almost the whole time they had been together made Rick feel greasy; agitated.

He clenched his fists, then read the messages one by one.

_Hey can we talk? I can come over later, or you can come to mine. Whichever suits._

_Really need to speak to you Rick – call me when you read this._

_Is everything OK? I NEED TO SEE YOU._

_I'm coming over. Now._

Rick looked at the time of the last text. It had been sent little more than half an hour ago. Soon enough, there was a knock at the door, and Rick let her in.

She looked pale, and like she had been crying for not hours, but days. She refused the offer of a drink, and didn't even want to sit down. Rick led her into the kitchen, where he managed to convince her to accept a glass of water. She hovered in the middle of the room, setting her glass onto the table as Rick waited, his heart beginning to hammer with nerves.

"I'm not here to try to get back together or anything," she wrung her hands together. Rick could see the manic look in her eyes.

"Okay..." Rick nodded. "Then why... "

Lori sat down, twisting a lock of reddish-brown hair in her index finger. She looked different - why did she look different?

"My folks are so traditional," she began to babble. "They love the whole perfect family schtick, you know?"

Rick started to feel frustrated, maybe even slightly worried. She seemed manic.

" _Lori_ ," Rick said sharply, so much so that she looked up, her eyes wide and panicked. "Why are you here?"

Tears pooled in her eyes, and she laughed bitterly.

"I'm pregnant, Rick."

*

"Due at the end of the year, she reckons she's about three months gone."

Rick rocked back and forth on his heels and chewed his thumbnail; a nervous habit he had picked up over the years from Daryl. There was no good place to tell Daryl the news, but God, he hated that it was happening here, in this now-beautiful house that he loved so much. He couldn't bear the thought of tainting the thick flannel blankets on the old leather sofa, or the smell of wood-smoke.

"She was on the pill but she'd a stomach bug a while back. We did it once with no condom just after. Fucking _once_."

Daryl sat down onto the coffee table, as if his legs wouldn't make it over to the sofa. He immediately reached for the cigarettes in his back pocket, but didn't light one. He just sat there, not speaking, not moving. Rick needed some reaction – this was Daryl, after all. Where was the anger? The spat venom?

Daryl bit his bottom lip and began to nod slowly. Rick held his breath, trying not to think about the sun was streaming in through the window and turning Daryl's dark blond hair into gold.

"We're done."

Daryl's voice was monotone, resigned. Rick took a step forward, but Daryl shot him a warning glance, and he didn't dare venture further forward.

"Daryl... "

"I mean it. Ya should prob'ly leave."

"I don't want to." Rick stood his ground. "We can work something out... we can... "

Daryl stood up and swung his arm across his chest. This was more the reaction that Rick had expected. Daryl's neck reddened as he spoke.

"Ya remember what this place used to look like, Rick?"

"Of course I do."

"Yeah well that's what I grew up with, how it was before. Grew up with fuck all. This kid has a chance to grow up with everythin' it needs an' wants."

"It still would."

"Nah. We both were raised by only one parent – me barely any at all. Know you'd be there for it no matter what, but I ain't gonna do that to another kid. Ain't gonna have it grow up with something _less_ , just 'cause of _us_."

"It w... "

"Rick, just stop. Neither of us had our moms when we were kids. Ya need to give yer kid both parents. Ya know I'm right."

"How am I meant to race with all of this on my mind, Daryl?"

"All still comes down to winning, huh?"

Rick felt his eyes prickle with tears.

"'Cause on a bike is the only place I _can_ win at the moment."

*

Was fine, being back alone again. Was _normal_. At first, Daryl had missed the trudge of Rick's boots outside as he walked up the porch steps, but nothing lasted forever.

He had stopped burning the cedar candle Michonne had given him, and the lounge smelt like stale cigarette smoke now. Didn't matter. It was the time of the season when he went from hotel room to hotel room anyway.

Truth be told, he just wanted the season to be over. In the three months since Rick had told him that Lori was knocked up, his bike had fallen even further behind, and now all Rick needed to do was bring his bike home safely at the last few races to win the US Championship.

Jack was gone. Daryl had buried him at the side of the porch where he'd always lain and eaten the pigs' ears he'd enjoyed so much. The pain of that cut sharper and deeper than losing Rick did.

He'd gone out, gotten fucked up bad. Ended up in some backstreet tattoo place and woken up on his porch with two ugly black demons on his back. Him and Rick, maybe. Or Merle and his daddy. Or both him.

*

The Championship win happened too fast – Rick crossed the line, then he rode a victory lap, then he slowed down to let fans in the grandstands run onto the track to embrace him and hand him flags and presents, then he rode into the pits where his crew hugged him, then he went onto the podium and held up a trophy and ended up drenched in champagne, then he was ushered into the press conference where he was still too breathless to even speak, then he went into the pitlane where journalists shoved microphones into his face hoping for a soundbite, then he ran to his garage where his mechanics were handing him plastic tumblers of more champagne and blasting music, and sponsors were asking him to sign things for their friends and family and kids, then a local radio station wanted him to say _Hi I'm Rick Grimes and I listen to -_ and all the while Lori was at the back of the garage waiting for a kiss, and then her dad was hanging back there looking proud as punch, and then then then...

Rick's dad hugged him when he got back to the motorhome, before passing around glasses of champagne, and sparkling apple juice for Lori. Rick leant against the wall, physically and mentally drained. It felt nice, though, to see his dad laughing and smiling with Lori and her parents. Rick couldn't help but imagine them all around the dinner table at Thanksgivings and Christmasses; him at the head of the table with a carving knife in his hand, and a cosy sweater on.

He needed a family like that. But he needed Daryl, too.

The regret at the fact that he couldn't have both ebbed through his veins like thick black poison. He took a swig to try to chase the feeling away.

Lori came over to hug him and press moist kisses onto his cheek. He smoothed a hand across her belly; she was so petite that she barely had any bump, even though the baby was due in less than three months. She wasn't one of those women who glowed when pregnant; she looked tired and ill and had complained about the little one kicking when Rick had always assumed that feeling that was a good thing.

They were having a boy, a fact that Rick was thrilled about, if a little wary. A Grimes boy was going to grow up being expected to be a racer too. Rick was determined that a son of his would aspire to be something else. Something that was less stressful and dangerous. As special as being a double US Superbike Champion felt, it wasn't a life he would choose for his child.

The party continued long into the night; music pumping out of the motorhome as journalists and other team members came to congratulate Rick. His whole body was sore, and he began to feel smothered by all of the people. One thing he'd always been guaranteed when he was with Daryl was solitude.

"How about we break out something a little harder, what do you say, Alan?"

Rick's dad gestured to Lori's father as he rifled in his rucksack and produced a bottle of Jameson. Alan gave a questioning glance to Lori's mum, who nodded; her mouth in a thin line. No debate on who was boss in that marriage, then.

"Rick?" Alan said. "I know you prefer a beer, but you deserve some of this."

Rick felt tireder than he had in months at that moment. He glanced outside the motorhome window, seeing some Katana team members packing up to leave the track.

"Definitely," Rick nodded with a wide smile that hurt his cheeks. "I'm just going to pop out for a second, okay? Say goodbye to a few people I didn't get a chance to speak to earlier."

Rick slunk outside before anyone tried to pull him back. He just needed a moment to himself. He had everything – another Championship, a team that adored him, loving family, and a baby who he knew he'd love beyond words on the way.

He needed to not be that man for a couple of minutes. Half an hour. An hour. A day. Forever.

Dusk was falling as Rick walked down to the end of the pitlane, and most of the garage doors were down. Another season done and dusted. Team members were wearily making their way to the exit, eager to catch flights or cabs home to see their families.

He made his way to the gate that led onto the track. A young security guard shone a torch right into Rick's eyes, looking at him sternly until his face paled at the realisation at who it was.

"Sorry Mr Grimes sir. I didn't realise it was you. Would you like me to open the gate?"

"Please. And you don't need to be sorry, you're just doing your job."

Rick walked along the racetrack, looking up at the grandstands, now empty and almost eerie. He could leave all of this behind, he realised. He would be 25 next year and he knew that soon his youthful fearlessness would gradually begin to fade. Injuries would become more difficult to bounce back from. Family would come into his mind more when he had his helmet on than it used to.

Walking to the podium hadn't been intentional. In the dark, it didn't seem like Rick had stood there only hours before, trophy aloft and soaked in champagne. He looked around, knowing that if there were any security people around, they would let him do what he wanted. He paused at the bottom of the steps, before climbing up, and briefly looking at the top step before sitting down on it, head resting on his chin, looking across at the now-deserted grandstand that had been heaving with fans earlier.

A motorhome full of people he loved was minutes away, and yet he ached inside. He felt his heart beat a little quicker, and his knuckles went white as he gripped onto the step. Lori would want to move into the ranch once the baby was born, or perhaps before, he knew that. A world of responsibility lay ahead of him. It was overwhelming.

"Still soakin' it all in?"

Rick jumped. He hadn't heard the shadowy figure climbing up the steps to join him. Daryl had changed from his race leathers into a baggy pair of grey jeans and a black hoodie; his hands pushed deep inside the pockets and the hood up. A cigarette dangled from his mouth.

Daryl sat on the step beside him with a grunt, finishing his smoke in silence and then stubbing it out onto the floor. Rick snorted at the disrespect for the carpet on the podium.

"Just getting a few minutes on my own before I go back to reality."

"Sure," Daryl nodded. "Ya did good today."

"Only 'cause your bike wasn't good enough this year."

"Ain't gonna argue with that."

Rick laughed, and Daryl huffed under his breath. That old companiable silence again.

"Hey," Rick said. "Know I've been distant since... "

"Don't matter. Understandable."

"I know, but I don't want you thinking I don't think about you, or us."

Daryl stretched his arms out in front of his chest, flexing his fingers and then shrugging.

"How have you been?" Rick asked.

"Jus' fine."

"Really? 'Cause _I've_ been... "

"Well ya made yer bed, so... "

Rick remembered how dispassion in Daryl's voice had always been worse than anger.

Daryl stood up, pausing to press a fingertip against Rick's shoulder.

"Jus' so ya know, I lost Jack. Know ya liked him."

Rick shot up instantly.

"Oh Daryl, Jesus, I didn't know. I'm so sorry."

Daryl shrugged.

"He was old, so..."

Rick saw the end of Daryl's nose go pinkish and his eyes begin to water. Daryl looked exhausted. Rick couldn't stop himself from reaching out to squeeze his shoulder; pulling Daryl against him the second he felt the taut muscles. Rick looked from side to side and pushed Daryl towards the back wall of the podium. Daryl was silent, but he didn't resist either. Rick pressed a knee between Daryl's legs; his hands on Daryl's shoulders. They stood, lips parted and breathing against one another's mouths. Rick pressed a kiss against Daryl's jawline, and then Daryl was pulling his hair, diving for Rick's lips the second Rick lifted his head. Rick groaned, flicking his tongue inside Daryl's mouth and kissing him so hard that he eventually had to pull away for breath.

"Oh God, I can't stop this," he gasped, pressing his head into Daryl's chest. "You're part of me. _I can't stop_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and I am so sorry about Jack; it hurt to write that.
> 
> I haven't started writing the next chapter yet but hopefully it will come quicker than this one did. I do post writing updates on my Tumblr just to prove that I am not going anywhere.
> 
> Comments very welcome as always x


	14. 14.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Negan clicked his tongue. "You know, I used to want Grimes, but he's losing the fire he had, now he's got that pregnant girlfriend. The desire goes, you know, when family comes along. But you? You still got it. You're here all alone, nobody to look after but yourself. I can see it – you'll still give it everything to win 'cause you haven't got anything or anybody else."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to anyone (still) reading for the long breaks between updates. I need 1) more free time and 2) to stop writing such long chapters.
> 
> Not much to say about this one except that in a couple of chapters' time, we're going to start having some larger time jumps!
> 
> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/  
> I also post updates there about posting times and how far behind I am!

Daryl stared at the unexpected visitor to his home. He stood in the middle of the lounge, an indignant expression on his face.

"The _fuck_ are you doin' here? How'd ya even know where I live?" he asked.

Negan turned around on his heel, whistling through his teeth gently.

"Anyone can find out anything in that paddock, Daryl, you know that." He peered out of the window. "Nice place you got here."

Daryl backed towards the front of the bedroom door, hands clenched into fists.

"What do ya want? Ya can't just show up at my house with no warnin'. Season's over, there ain't nothin' ya can want from me."

Daryl was simmering with fury at being disturbed. Negan had just driven up to the cabin and knocked on his door, bold as brass. It was late November and Daryl wanted to be left alone.

"Oh, there's _plenty_ I want," Negan laughed, sitting down on the couch and crossing his legs. He stretched his arms behind his head, arrogantly making himself at home.

"You signed a contract for Katana for next season again?" he asked.

Daryl nodded.

"Of course. Michonne an' me sorted it out months ago."

Negan cocked his head to the side.

"How much?"

"What?"

"How _much_ ," Negan repeated. "Name your price and come and race for Sanctuary instead."

It was Daryl's turn to laugh now, bitter and hollow.

"Ain't no price that'd make me break a contract and race for ya."

" _Any_ racer can be bought," Negan spat, his expression darkening. "You gonna stay with Katana and hope they'll make a better bike than the shitheap you were racing this season past?"

"We will."

"There's no guarantee of that, Daryl. You're insane if you stay there. No, not insane. Fucking _stupid_."

Negan stood up, pulling a pen and checkbook from his back pocket. Daryl looked at them with disgust.

"Stupid would be racin' for a boss that would put a kid like Glenn onto a bike an' get him killed. An' a boss that lets an asshole like Shane Walsh ride around like a fuckin' maniac, causin' danger to the rest of us."

" _Wow_. There's that Dixon temper," Negan crossed his arms and kept grinning. His smile was un-nerving; it reminded Daryl of his daddy, the way the smile hid an anger that was always just below the surface.

He needed Negan out of his house.

"Ya best be leavin'." Daryl nodded towards the door.

Negan stood up, pacing around the lounge, lifting up books to read the back of them, and staring at the few photographs Daryl had framed – one of his momma, one of Merle, and one of Jack.

"Cute dog."

Negan looked behind Daryl's shoulder at the door to the main bedroom. Daryl stood rigid, until Negan raised an eyebrow and moved back beside the front door.

"You're missing a big opportunity, Daryl. Some day you'll wish you'd taken me up on my offer." He clicked his tongue. "You know, I used to want Grimes, but he's losing the fire he had, now he's got that pregnant girlfriend. The desire goes, you know, when family comes along. But you? You still got it. You're here all alone, nobody to look after but yourself. I can _see_ it – you'll still give it everything to win 'cause you haven't got anything or anybody else."

"I got a team I love," Daryl retorted. "An' a boss I like an' respect. Ain't ever gonna come crawlin' to ya for that. Ya better go before I do somethin' I shouldn't."

Daryl held the door open. Negan turned to face him one last time as he took a step outside.

"Doesn't have to be next season, or even the one after that, Daryl. The offer's there anytime." He paused. "...If you make it, of course. You know as well as I do that it's a dangerous sport."

"Fuckin' asshole," Daryl muttered under his breath as he watched Negan's Harley disappear down the hill. He waited on the porch for a few moments, breathing in the chilly Fall air and trying not to think about _You'll still give it everything to win 'cause you haven't got anything or anybody else._ Maybe Negan was right about that. Not about anything else, but maybe _that_.

His breath froze as he exhaled, and then a second plume joined his in the freezing air.

"Thought he was going to walk into the bedroom and see ya," Daryl murmured.

Rick put a hand on Daryl's shoulder and leant against the porch fence.

"Had my back to the door just in case," Rick replied. "Anyway, wouldn't have been any of his business if he'd seen me at your place. I could've been here for lots of reasons."

"Ya hear any of it?"

"Yep," Rick nodded, staring into Daryl's eyes. "He's all talk. Acting like a dick 'cause neither of us have ever wanted to race for him."

Rick disappeared for a few moments before coming back out and handing Daryl a steaming mug of coffee. They sat down on the porch step, watching the yard become covered in falling orange and yellow leaves.

"Days like this," Rick pondered. "Make me want to just spend every day this way. Sitting watching the world go by."

Daryl took a sip, letting the coffee burn his mouth.

"Ain't gonna happen. By the time we go racin' again, you'll have a kid. An' the ranch sure ain't as quiet as up here is. An' anyway, since when have _you_ wanted to stop racin'?"

"I don't," Rick replied, holding his hand out and letting a raindrop fall onto his palm. "But another couple of seasons and that's me, I think. I heard what Negan said. He's not entirely wrong about me."

"Fuck off, Grimes," Daryl growled, trying to keep the worry from his voice. "Ya got more than a few years of great racin' in ya. We both do."

"Hell, I don't know, Daryl. Second Superbike Championship didn't feel as good as the first. Scared of winning not meaning as much anymore, not like it did when we first started."

Daryl chewed on his lip. Rick was sitting right beside him but he still felt like he wanted to grab onto him in case he floated away.

"Ya quit racin' an' we won't see one another." Daryl stared at his shoes.

"We would."

"Nah," Daryl shook his head ruefully. "We wouldn't. An' ya know it, even if ya won't admit it. Yer dad's goin' ta give ya full run of that ranch, ya know. That'll take up your time, the baby will too... An' her."

"You never say her name," Rick pondered, his voice almost a whisper.

Daryl rubbed his temple.

"If I don' say her name then I can pretend we ain't doin' all this behind her back."

Rick looked at his watch.

"There's another hour and a half until I have to leave. Are we... "

"Nah," Daryl shook his head. "Not today."

Rick's brow furrowed. Daryl knew Rick loved sex with him; Daryl loved it too most of the time, but he couldn't bear the thought of touching and smelling Rick's bare skin.

"...Why?" Rick eventually asked, trying but failing to meet Daryl's eyes.

Daryl licked his lips and considered his words carefully.

"'Cause every time we do it, it's just one more time I'm gonna have ta miss when I don't have ya anymore."

*

"You sure you and Lori don't want my bedroom? It's bigger than yours."

Richard put the screwdriver down and stood back to survey the white wooden crib he had just assembled.

"What do you think, Rick?" He looked around.

Rick nodded.

"You did a good job, dad. And no, we're happy where we are. My – _our_ \- room's plenty big for a baby as well."

"Never thought I'd be spending Christmas Eve building a crib, that's for sure." Richard smoothed a hand over the pale blue blanket that lined the bottom. "It will be nice for the ranch to become a family home again. This place is yours now, Rick."

"Dad..."

"You know I'm right. I want you and Lori to do whatever you want to the house. Make it right, make it how you want so you can bring your kids up here."

"We haven't had the first one yet."

"You need more than one. If your mom hadn't... Well, let's just say you should have had brothers and sisters. Guess that's why you and Daryl were so close back in the day."

Rick stared at the crib, then looked at the piles of diapers and baby clothes that were in the corner, waiting. He cleared his throat, trying not to remember his bedroom the way it had been when he was a teenager and Daryl was sleeping over. He gripped onto the side of the crib, feeling sweat break out on his top lip and forehead.

"You okay, son?"

Rick didn't reply, and his dad guided him to the bed, where they both sat down.

"Breathe," Richard demanded, rubbing Rick's back.

Rick put his head between his knees and tried to stop the room from spinning. His dad's voice sounded echo-y, as if it was coming from miles away. He saw Daryl's face, smelt the smoke from the cabin's fire, and heard the rumble of the engine of Daryl's Triumph.

"I can't do this, dad," he eventually managed to sob out.

"Rick, you can and you will," Richard said firmly. "It's terrifying, but it'll be the making of you, you'll see. It was for me."

Rick lifted his head, looking into the worried eyes of his father. More heavily lined than his own, but just as blue, if not more so. Rick had always been able to tell him anything, he'd never felt anything but support and love from him, but he also knew when to tell his dad what he wanted to hear instead of the truth.

"I'm sure you're right."

"I am. Listen to your old man."

Rick remembered running around the paddock as a small child when his dad had been racing, and wondered if he would bring his own kid when it was old enough. He wasn't sure it was what he wanted – for the baby, or even for himself. He had no idea if Lori would want to be travelling around the country either once she was a mother. It dawned on Rick that they hadn't even discussed that. They hadn't discussed a lot of things, bar the fact that Lori was going to move in in a matter of days.

Rick breathed in so hard that his lungs hurt.

"Dad?" he ventured, feeling the sweat seep from his palms into his jeans.

"Yeah?"

Rick thought of the pride on Richard's face as he'd finished the crib; how excited he was to make the ranch a family home again and become a grandfather. Rick couldn't destroy that.

"Just wondered if you could help me wallpaper the nursery."

"Is that all? Had me worried for a moment."

Rick gave a wan smile.

"Nothing to worry about, dad."

*

"What is it with me an' unannounced visitors these days, huh?" Daryl grumbled as Rick hopped out of his truck and walked towards the garage, where Daryl was working on one of his bikes.

Rick didn't answer, just stood and watched Daryl rifle through his toolbox until he found the spanner he needed. Daryl's face was smeared with grease and there was oil under his fingernails. The garage smelt of dust and WD-40.

"Got yourself a Harley?" Rick asked.

Daryl remained on his knees.

"Yup."

For a few moments there were nothing but clinking noises as Daryl worked on the bike. He eventually stood up, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and leaving another oily mark across his face. He wiped his hands with a red bandana and threw it onto the workbench.

"So what do ya want?" he grunted. "Ain't it New Year's Eve?"

"Yeah it is. I sent you a text message, I sent you _seven_ , to be precise, over the holidays, and you didn't reply so..."

"Ain't charged my phone. Didn't get no messages."

Daryl still hadn't looked Rick in the eye. Rick didn't know what to say now that he had arrived – he'd risked his ass sneaking out to come up here, telling Lori that he'd had to take the truck to a mechanic so it would be in perfect running order when the baby came.

"Can we go inside to talk?" Rick asked, gesturing to the porch. "It's damn cold out here."

"Ya can't keep comin' back here, wantin' things _your_ own damn way, an' just expect me to fall into line," Daryl snapped. He finally looked directly at Rick, eyes narrowed and lips thin and pursed.

"I don't expect you to..."

"Ya do. Callin' up here today an' expectin' me to drop everything? An' fer what? 'Cause ya can't fuck yer knocked up girlfriend the way you fuck _me_?"

"Jesus Daryl, you know it's more than that. That's not why I came. I just wanted to see you."

Maybe Daryl was right, maybe there _was_ a small part of him that took Daryl for granted too much, a part that liked to get his way and always be in control. But if that was the case, he only did it because he needed Daryl. It pained him to think that maybe Daryl didn't need him as much. Daryl could cope alone. Rick wasn't sure _he_ could.

"This what you're going to do?" Rick asked, when Daryl didn't speak. "Just send me away? Stay up here alone, push people away, act like you don't want anyone?" He licked his lips, feeling his temper rising. "That's how you end up alone for the rest of your life."

"Least I can _be_ alone," Daryl hissed. "Ain't like you. Don't have ta go and fuck some bitch to replace the family I lost when my mom died."

"Don't... don't talk about that," Rick warned. He shook his head slowly. Too far. Too fucking far, Daryl.

"Why not?" Daryl challenged. "We both lost our moms when we were too damn young. 'Course, yours didn't die like mine did, asleep with a cigarette in her hand. Yours died _nobly_."

"Cancer isn't noble, Daryl. One more word and... " Rick could feel himself starting to shake.

"And what? Go on, get _mad_ , Grimes. Burning up inside ya, ain't it? Ya can _taste_ how much ya want ta hit me. Ya want it bad, like bile on yer tongue."

Daryl leant towards Rick, his eyes like slits and teeth bared as he taunted him.

"Been good for ya, all these years, hasn't it. Havin' me at yer beck and call, yer little hillbilly charity case that ya helped ta make ya feel better about yerself. 'Cause without that, ya ain't got _shit_."

Rick lost it, grabbing Daryl by the collar and slamming him against the garage wall. Spanners and screwdrivers fell from the workbench onto the garage floor in an angry metallic rattle.

"Never heard you refuse any of our help," he raged, so close to Daryl's face that their noses were almost brushing. "You were just like a dog from the pound that we brought in and cared for. A stray. _Nothing_."

Daryl stood still, the heat radiating off him. He didn't move, even though Rick still had him pinned against the wall. Rick was strong, they both were, and if a punch was thrown, it'd be a pretty evenly matched fight. Daryl had the temper, but as Rick breathed heavily through his nose and fumed, he knew that that unbridled, unhinged rage that sometimes made his head go light would never be good news for an opponent. Even if it was Daryl.

"I ain't yer bitch," Daryl seethed, grabbing Rick's wrist and wrenching it from his collar. His face was red and had a livid expression. Rick made to grab his collar once more, but Daryl smacked his hand away angrily, before shoving Rick square in the chest.

Rick staggered backwards a couple of steps, facing Daryl, whose fingers were twitching. He pointed at Rick as he hissed.

"Lay a hand on me again an' I'll put yer ass on the fuckin' _floor._ "

Rick felt a rush of anger, and pushed Daryl back. Daryl's body was solid, and he was able to stand firm. Rick pushed him again, only for Daryl to suddenly swing a punch. Rick jerked his head to the side rapidly enough that Daryl's fist barely connected with his ear. He grabbed Daryl's collar again and properly slammed him against the wall this time, knowing that there was no way that it wouldn't have hurt.

"Try that again, Dixon," Rick growled. "Try that fucking _again_ , and I swear, I will fucking knock every one of your teeth out."

He was close enough to Daryl's face to smell his breath, see each individual pore on his face. Rick kept his fingers tangled in the material of Daryl's shirt, keeping him pressed against the wall. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and oil, Daryl's breath coming in rasps and his body hot and hard against Rick's.

"Fuck you, Grimes," Daryl jeered, pushing back against Rick's body to try to escape from his grasp.

Rick held his ground, moving his leg in between Daryl's thighs. Daryl jerked his body forward again, trapping Rick's leg there. Rick bit his lip, inching his leg further in between Daryl's. Daryl shifted his feet so that Rick's thigh was pressed right against his groin. Neither of them took a breath as Rick bent down to suck against Daryl's neck. Daryl groaned.

"I said, _fuck you, Grimes_. Fuck you."

Daryl tugged at Rick's fingers, removing them from his collar. Rick stared at Daryl, all anger gone from his face now, as he moved up and down against Rick's denim-clad thigh. Rick felt Daryl's hardening cock against his leg, and felt his own swell and rise. Rick kept his fingers against Daryl's face, and then Daryl was grabbing his wrist, holding Rick's hand up and licking his palm.

"Fuck," Rick gasped, aroused by the sensation of Daryl's wet tongue against his skin. Daryl sucked Rick's index and middle fingers into his mouth, and the sight of his cheekbones hollowing had Rick completely rigid in seconds.

With his other hand, he unzipped Daryl quickly, grateful to find no underwear. He slid his wet hand under Daryl's jeans, finding his thick, veined dick hard and sticking up towards his stomach. Rick all but slumped against Daryl as he took Daryl's cock in his hand and rubbed and squeezed him. They were silent apart from the obscene slapping noise of Rick's palm against Daryl's leaking dick until Daryl gave a harsh gasp.

"Gon' come," he rasped. " _Fuck_... _fu_... "

Daryl spurted, warm and sticky right into Rick's hand. Rick's own hard-on was now straining almost painfully, trapped inside his jeans.

"Can we go inside?" he whispered into Daryl's ear.

Daryl threw him a bandana and Rick wiped his hands while Daryl zipped himself up and got his breath back.

"Yer a prick," Daryl grumbled as walked out of the garage. Rick followed him into the cabin, hard as a rock and unable to take his eyes off the broad shoulders in front of him.

Inside, Daryl led him to the bedroom. Daryl's bed was messy, but the sheets were clean and soft. A heavily thumbed-through Faulkner novel sat on the nightstand, and the drapes hadn't been opened. Daryl's muddy boots had been kicked into a corner, and there was a plaid shirt hanging over the back of a brown leather armchair. Rick adored this room, so different from the plush beigeness of his and Lori's.

Daryl pulled his shirt and jeans off, throwing it onto the floor and flopping down onto the mattress, brazenly naked. Rick stood at the end of the bed, gazing down at him – his long arms reaching out for his cigarettes and then the narrowed eyes and high cheekbones as he lit up.

"Need ta give me a minute," Daryl drawled, taking a long drag and pointedly looking at between Rick's legs, where his erection was all too obvious. "Ain't ready ta go within a coupla minutes like a teenager."

Rick watched him smoke, deliberately slowly, it seemed like. Daryl put a hand behind his head and let his cigarette dangle from his thin lips. Rick saw him give a small smirk, enjoying watching Rick's discomfort.

"Kinda hot," he drawled.

"What's that?" Rick raised an eyebrow. His hands gripped the bedframe; his knuckles going white.

"You. Lookin' at me like I'm a steak or one of those peanut butter candy bars ya like."

Daryl stubbed his cigarette out, his tongue darting in and out of his mouth as he sat up on one elbow, barely hiding his snort of a laugh. Rick blushed, knowing his desperation was comically obvious.

"Please," he croaked.

Daryl sat up.

"C'mere."

Rick moved to the side of the bed as Daryl swung his legs and planted his feet on the floor, either side of Rick's legs. He gave a cough as he unzipped Rick's jeans and pulled them down. Rick gulped as Daryl slid fingers under the waistband of his underwear and yanked them down also. Daryl's fingers moved back up towards Rick's cock, and Rick was frightened he would come instantly. He looked down at how his engorged dick was level with Daryl's nose, and he resisted the urge to take himself in his own hand; wipe the wet head of it across Daryl's lips, before pushing it into Daryl's warm mouth.

Instead, he took Daryl's hand, motioning for him to stand up. Daryl complied; Rick discarding his clothes as he did so. He slid a hand up the back of Daryl's strong neck, tangling his fingers in Daryl's shaggy hair as he pressed his mouth to his, sliding his tongue into Daryl's mouth. Daryl pushed back against him, the cruel words from earlier now forgotten; replaced by soft whispers and laughs.

"Can we...?" Rick managed to gasp between kisses, rubbing a circle at the small of Daryl's back.

"Yeah," Daryl gave a short nod, pulling away from Rick's embrace to turn around slowly.

Rick gulped, admiring the broadness of Daryl's freckled shoulders once more, and lightly brushing his fingers against the black tattoos. He pushed Daryl up against the bedroom wall; Daryl placing his hands against it for leverage as Rick dropped to his knees, pressing kisses against Daryl's tailbones, the top of his ass, and the backs of his thighs before parting Daryl's cheeks and beginning to work him open with his tongue.

Daryl squirmed against Rick as he replaced his tongue with fingers, crooked inside Daryl, widening and stretching the dampened ring of muscle. Christ, Rick never knew how either of them kept their composure when he was doing this; Daryl always so uncharacteristically pliant beneath his touch.

Rick stood up, his dick dark purple and leaking.

" _Now_. That okay?" he breathed, and Daryl nodded, widening his legs. His back was dotted with beads of sweat, which Rick licked before grabbing onto his cock and pushing inside Dary's hot, ready body.

Rick gave a strangled moan at the first feel of that tightness around his prick. He gripped onto Daryl's shoulders and thrust in and out; practiced enough now that he knew what angle would send Daryl's body into spasms.

His fingers dug into Daryl's hip bones as he gave a hard jerk upwards, ramming his cock upwards into Daryl so hard that he almost lost his footing. Daryl's palms were still firmly pressed against the wall, and then Rick felt Daryl's entire body tremble in front of him, juddering and shaking as Daryl gave such a cry it almost sounded like he was in pain. Rick felt Daryl contract around his dick, and realised that Daryl was coming without either of them having a hand on his cock; come spilling onto his heated skin and the floor.

"I didn't even touch you," Rick gasped in semi-disbelief. "I didn't even touch you."

He reached around Daryl's waist, finding his dick and squeezing the last drops from it. Daryl moaned, resting his head on his forearm as he all but collapsed against the wall. Rick was still inside him, still hard, but Daryl backed against him, and Rick pounded into him, making more filthy noises spill from Daryl's mouth.

"Close... " Rick gulped.

"Yeah, yeah, come on then," Daryl rasped, widening his legs as Rick gave another hard thrust and exploded inside him.

*

Rick fucked Daryl in bed until long after the sun had gone down. Edging him for over an hour to let him recover from the pounding against the wall Rick had given him. Bringing Daryl to the point of coming with his tongue and fingers, then stopping just as he was about to climax. When they were both finally able, Rick came inside Daryl before taking Daryl's cock in his mouth, licking and sucking it until Daryl erupted on his tongue. Rick drank him down, then kissed Daryl hungrily, sweat and come mingling in their mouths.

After, Rick tried to pull the sheets over the two of them, but Daryl kicked them off again. Daryl liked to lie spreadeagled, so Rick threw a leg over his thigh and threaded his fingers through Daryl's against the pillow. He smoothed his other hand across Daryl's chest.

"You don't have to answer, but where were you over Christmas, Daryl?"

Daryl squeezed Rick's hand lightly and shrugged.

"Rode up to DC."

"DC?"

"Yeah. Was a bike for sale, a Bonneville. Thought it might be Merle's old one, but it weren't."

"You know just from looking at it?"

"Uh-huh, was an SS badge on it," Daryl looked away bashfully. "'M sure that's gone now, but Merle scratched his initials underneath the gas tank when he first got it. No-one knew it was there but me an' him." He sighed, reaching across to trail his nails down the stubble on Rick's cheek.

"Yer not growin' a beard are ya?"

Rick laughed at the confused expression on Daryl's face.

"Just haven't shaved for a day."

Daryl pressed his head back into the pillows to laugh.

"Just a day? Man, it'd take me two fuckin' weeks to even grow that much." He rubbed a hand across his smooth chin.

"What do you think though?" Rick giggled. "Shall I grow a beard some day?"

It felt good, to be both lying back against the pillows, talking about trivial crap. The bedroom curtains were open, and Rick watched the sky turn from purple into slate grey as dusk fell.

"Sorry about that stupid argument, Daryl."

Daryl chewed his thumbnail, a guilty expression on his face.

"Don't be sorry, Grimes. Said worse ta _you_. Shouldn't have said any of that shit about yer mom. Guess I thought that if I said the worst things I could think of, you'd leave without feelin' bad about this endin'."

"It's not end... "

"It is." Daryl's voice was calm. "I told ya Rick, years ago – we're fuck ups, you an' me."

Rick felt the ache of Daryl's words right down to the marrow in his bones. He turned his head when Daryl hadn't said anything for a few moments, only to see that he had his eyes closed and was breathing steadily. Damn Dixon could fall asleep at the drop of a hat; Rick was the type to toss and turn, letting his brain stay too active.

On the nightstand, Rick's mobile phone began to vibrate. He grabbed it quickly, not wanting to wake Daryl up.

"Lori?" he said in a loud whisper.

_"Rick, I think the baby's coming, please come home."_

"You sure?"

 _"Yes I'm fucking sure, where the hell are you? I... "_ Lori gave an agonised wail and the colour drained from Rick's face.

"Get my dad to take you to the hospital, or call an ambulance if he's not home. I'll meet you there, okay? I'll be as quick as I can."

Rick's hands shook as he pulled on his jeans, fumbling with the zipper and button. His stomach was churning and he felt like he might vomit. All the while, Daryl slept. Rick looked over at him lying on the pale grey sheets, buck naked and showing off his long, sinewy arms and muscled neck and shoulders. A rider's physique. He looked younger when he slept, his lips pursed in a perfect cupid's bow and his forehead free from frown lines.

Rick took a long look; drinking him in. He knew it might be a long time before he saw it again.

"I love you."

Daryl didn't stir. Rick picked up his keys and left.

*

"Daryl Dixon, you've taken the first pole position of the new season. Tell us how it feels!"

"Good."

"Katana already seem to have given you a much better bike than last year. Can you win tomorrow?"

"Yup."

Daryl wiped his face with a towel and left the press pit. Michonne high-fived him as she walked in the other direction to hospitality. He hadn't told the journalists that he'd been holding back on track today. He knew he could have gone faster, but everyone else had been so much slower than him that he hadn't had to. Fuck Negan and fuck Sanctuary. Michonne and the rest of the Katana team had worked their asses off all winter and made a bike that Daryl was quietly confident about.

He did a double-take when he saw Richard Grimes outside the Team Greene motorhome, cradling a small baby in his arms. He nodded a hello at Daryl, and cocked his head as if beckoning Daryl over, but Daryl gave a wave and kept on walking. Not yet. He wasn't ready.

Daryl was grateful the Woodbury Raceway was only a couple of hours' drive away from his home. He changed into plain black clothes with the intention of getting the hell out of there as quickly and as anonymously as possible. He threw a leg over his bike, and was about to pull his all-black helmet on when a voice interrupted him.

"Congratulations."

Rick appeared in front of Daryl's bike. He leant over the handlebars, close enough for Daryl to see how exhausted he looked. His face was drawn and ash-grey; haggard even.

"Same ta you."

"Thanks. Ten weeks and it's still a shock to the system."

"'M sure."

Daryl wrapped his fingers around one of the handlebars. Rick made to place his hand on top, but Daryl snatched his quickly away.

"Haven't seen you all weekend, asides from on track," Rick said. He sounded nervous. Daryl looked at his gaunt cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. Rick had only qualified tenth today, and from his appearance, Rick wasn't sure if it was because his bike was bad, or Rick just wasn't in the right physical or mental state to be racing.

"Been lyin' low."

 _I don't want to fuckin' see you, or her, or it_ , Daryl felt like screaming, but instead he bit his lip and shrugged, like he always did.

It hurt to look up at Rick. Not just because he couldn't bear to look into his eyes properly for the first time in three months, but because it pained him to see Rick so shattered.

"Tell yer dad I said hello, was in too much of a hurry to stop an' chat earlier," he told Rick, hoping that that would be the end of the conversation, but Rick gave a small gasp of what sounded like exasperation.

"Daryl, don't you want to _see_ him?"

Daryl lifted his helmet up, but Rick placed his hand against the top, stopping Daryl from putting it on.

"Rick, I can't."

"His name's Carl. He's in the motorhome with my dad." Rick tilted his head to the side. "You really won't come meet him?"

"With _her_ there? Sleepless nights made ya lose yer mind, or... "

"Okay, okay." Rick shook his head wearily. "Guess I just hoped you'd want to see him when we shared all the other big moments of our lives, but you do what you gotta do, Daryl."

Daryl closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

"It ain't about him, Rick. Maybe some time... but not today, not now. Okay?"

Rick nodded. "Okay."

Daryl patted Rick's stomach lightly.

"Ya look tired."

"Tired isn't the word." He smiled, his eyes watery. "I love being a dad, though. Didn't think I would, feel too young. But, fuck Daryl, I'd do anything for him." He turned around to survey the billowing team flags in the grandstands in the distance. "All this feels a lot less important."

Rick held his hand out, and they shook hands in farewell. Like men, like acquaintances. Daryl wasn't sure they'd ever done that before.

*

In the crappy bar he and Michonne had gone to after the race, nobody gave a shit who they were. The old drunks sat nursing whiskies, not noticing the motorcycle racer and his boss arrive and sit down at a table in a dark corner.

Michonne wrinkled her nose as she wiped off a smudgy fingerprint that was on her glass.

"This really where you want to celebrate your win today?"

"Yup," Daryl threw back a whisky, then another. He moved the glasses into a row. The win had been so easy that it hadn't even felt satisfying. Rick had come seventh.

Michonne put a hand over Daryl's third shot glass.

"Why do I feel like this is more about commiseration than celebration?"

Never in Daryl's life had he ever met someone who could read him the way Michonne could – not even Rick. He was race-tired, and pretty soon he'd be booze-tired, too.

"It's jus' a couple of drinks, 'Chonne."

She picked up one of his shot glasses and drained it, trying to hide her wince.

"That's a cute baby that Rick has." Her gaze on Daryl was searching, focused.

Daryl looked down at the sticky table.

"You guys growing up together means that you must practically be his Uncle, right?"

"Michonne... "

Daryl drummed his fingers against the table, scratched the back of his head, rubbed his eyes.

" _What?_ " she asked. "Don't you know by now that you can tell me anything, even if you think I'm going to give you shit about it? I'm your boss, yeah, but I'm your friend too... how long did we live together? Surely you know that I'm a good listener."

The bar band started playing, some country and western dirge that Daryl's daddy would probably have liked. Michonne leaned in closer.

"Tell me."

"Rick," Daryl eventually let the name fall from his mouth, and Michonne nodded.

"No _shit_."

Daryl sucked his cheeks in, and breathed in through his nose so hard that he became lightheaded.

"We were... not together, but... "

" _Together_."

"Yeah. All this past year, while he was seeing _her_."

"Ah," Michonne sat back and crossed her arms.

"Know it ain't right," Daryl told her hoarsely. "But me an' him... was always jus' us, until _she_ came along."

" _She_ has a name."

"Don't mean I have ta say it."

"Doesn't mean you can act like she's _wronged_ you in some way, either. She doesn't know any of this, I assume. All she did was fall in love with Rick."

Michonne gave a nod to the barman, and he quickly appeared with another tray of shots.

"I ain't done shit on her," Daryl snapped. "So if I don't want ta say her fuckin' name, I don't have ta. Yeah, none of this is her fault, but it's _easier_ bein' mad at her, than Rick. Okay? Ya get that?"

"I get it, I get it," Michonne agreed, clasping an empty glass to her chest. Her words were beginning to slur. For all her bravado, she couldn't keep up with a Dixon when it came to drinking. "If I'm being perfectly honest, I don't care for her much myself. Girls like that are all the same, never got over being Prom Queen or whatever the hell they were in High School."

Daryl snorted into his glass.

"Is it over?" Michonne asked, her face serious.

"Is now," Daryl nodded, twirling his zippo between his fingers. "Since New Year's Eve, just before the kid was born." He sat back. "Sorry I never told ya, 'Chonne. Yer m' best friend an' I should've."

Michonne looked oddly touched by Daryl's words, and gave a small smile.

"Heartbreak is a motherfucker to get over."

"Ain't heartbroken. 'M fine."

Michonne's eyes narrowed and her face had a sympathetic expression. Daryl didn't want her pity.

"I'm sure you are, Daryl. There'll be other guys."

Daryl pulled a cigarette out of the packet, ignoring Michonne's disapproving look, and stuck it behind his ear.

"What, ya think I could show up at a race with some guy? Ya want me to get my ass kicked?"

"It's the new millennium... "

"So fuckin' what. Don't make no difference to what people think. An' I ain't in the slightest bit interested anyway. Grimes was the only jerk I could ever tolerate near me. Hell, Dixons are better off on their own anyway."

"I just don't want you to miss out on shit like that, that's all. Maybe one day you'd like to have a child too, like Rick."

"Pffft, yer fuckin' kiddin', right? Ain't ever been a good father in my entire damn family. All drinkers n' gamblers, at the very least. All too quick to raise a fist or a belt. Wouldn't do that to a kid."

"You're not any of them," Michonne shook her head vehemently, pointing at Daryl. "You're not."

"No tellin' _what_ I'll turn out ta be."

He walked outside and leant against the graffitied wall, lighting up and pulling his baseball cap on and down over his eyes. A young drunk man staggered past, turning to glance at him, then pause for a longer look.

"Hey man, aren't you... "

"Nah," Daryl snapped. "I ain't anyone."

*

Daryl's bike wobbled as he lost concentration. There were two laps left and the air was thick with gravel-dust from whoever had just gone off track and hit the tyre wall. The crowd were on their feet, looking away from the track, and instead at a ruined motorcycle. He rode past a large screen, but all he could see were track officials in their orange jumpsuits running towards whoever it was. Hardly surprising, the Seattle track was slippery as fuck after the morning drizzle, and lots of riders had gone down throughout the course of the weekend.

Daryl dared to sneak a look behind his shoulder. Shane and he had been tussling for the lead all race, and now the red Sanctuary bike was right on his tail, edging closer with each corner. Daryl put his knee down as he rounded the corner approaching where the rider had crashed. He glanced across, seeing black and neon green bodywork scattered across the gravel. The largest piece had the number 75 on it - the number Rick raced with, chosen for the year they were both born. Daryl eased off the throttle momentarily, before remembering that Rick would be in good hands with the marshals, but it was enough for Shane to ease past and take the lead. Five more corners and Shane won, with Daryl a close second.

As he crossed the line, he saw an ambulance on the screen.

After the podium, Daryl pushed past the reporters and TV crews to get to the Team Greene motorhome. He felt sick with worry. They'd both had crashes throughout the years, sure, but neither of them had ever been stretchered off.

"Get out of my fuckin' way," he growled at a photographer who was shoving a camera in his face.

"Daryl!" Michonne was making her way past the crowds and heading straight towards him, mobile phone pressed to her ear. She grabbed Daryl's hand and led him into the Katana garage.

"Rick... " Daryl's breathing was ragged and his voice came out in a croak.

Michonne shoved her mobile into her pocket and nodded.

"He's breathing, conscious, he's _okay_."

Daryl pressed a hand against the back wall of the garage and took several deep breaths. He felt light-headed from fear, a fear that maybe a few years back he wouldn't have felt, because he and Rick had always felt so damn confident that they were invincible.

"Sit down."

Michonne guided Daryl to a chair, where he sat with his head between his knees while Michonne spoke.

"I called his dad, they're all at the hospital. The bike landed on Rick's hand, bashed it up pretty badly. Ambulances came 'cause they thought it was worse, but he just couldn't get up because there was part of the bike on his arm."

Daryl didn't respond, but lifted his head and rested it against the wall. Michonne put a hand on his arm.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yeah."

She held up her car keys.

"We can go to the hospital right now. I can tell the reporters that we're cancelling all media, send out a press release later about your race, okay?"

Daryl thought of Rick's dad, Lori, and the baby all being in a waiting room or hospital corridor together. He couldn't walk right into the middle of that. Wasn't the place he wanted to see the baby properly for the first time, and he sure as fuck wasn't sure he'd be able to hold in his emotions if he saw Rick lying there in a hospital bed.

"Ain't goin' to no fuckin' hospital."

Michonne's eyes widened.

"Daryl, it's _Rick_. Whatever you feel, whatever you're scared of, he's in _hospital_. I understand, I do, but – get over yourself. Just this once."

Daryl stared at the ground guiltily. Michonne was always annoyingly right, and no-one else would be allowed to give him the shit that she did. But he wasn't fucking going.

"I'll text him later. Don't fuckin' push me, 'Chonne. Ya know the situation. Ya know it's fucked up."

Michonne relented, squeezing Daryl's shoulder.

"I'll cancel all press now. Is there anything else you need me to do after?"

"Yeah. Change my flight out of Sea-Tac from tomorrow morning to tonight."

*

Daryl was sitting in a corner of the departure lounge trying to swallow down a rubbery cheeseburger when Hershel sat down beside him with a groan.

"Atlanta flight's delayed by an hour and a half thanks to the fog."

Daryl spat a mouthful of burger into the paper wrapper and threw it into the trash.

"Fuck."

"Indeed," Hershel nodded sagely. He dug inside his pocket and produced a packet of mints, holding the pack out to Daryl. Daryl shook his head. "Used to eat these to cover up my breath after I'd been drinking," Hershel chuckled. "I kicked the booze but I could never kick these."

Daryl forced a smile, just wanting to be left alone, no matter how much he cared for the old man. The grim orange lighting on the ceiling was giving him a headache, and he was exhausted after the race. He was even less in the mood for conversation than he normally was, but he had to ask about Rick.

"He's broken three metacarpals in his left hand," Hershel sighed. "X-rays found dislocated bone segments... all kinds of messed up. He'll have an operation tonight, and they're talking at least two months' recovery time."

Daryl chewed on his bottom lip, wishing he felt as calm as Hershel sounded. Hershel Greene had been around the block more times than once; he'd seen injuries worse, much worse.

"He gon' be able to race again?" Daryl looked down at the carpeted floor.

"Oh yeah, no question," Hershel replied. "Just depends on how quickly he recovers from surgery, and how well his rehab goes. We've gotten him the best physio we could find – Dr Siddiq Nash, the best in the business, apparently."

"That's good," Daryl nodded, finally taking a mint that Hershel was offering. He sucked on it thoughtfully. "When I saw the ambulance, kinda thought... "

Hershel patted Daryl's shoulder.

"Rick will be _fine_. Hell, you two boys have been lucky, ten odd years of racing and this is the worst injury so far. And I'm glad for it, I am. Always wanted to keep Rick safe, on account of knowing his father for so long. And you too, Daryl. Maybe you more."

"Me more? Why?"

"If anything happened and Rick couldn't race any more, he'd be okay. Even before the girlfriend and baby came along, he _still_ would have been okay. But you? I can see it in you that racing is all you're here for. Even though I'm not your boss anymore, I still keep an eye on you, I still don't want to see you in a hospital bed."

Daryl looked up at Hershel bashfully.

"Aw man, I'm tough. Few broken bones wouldn't stop me."

Hershel looked at Daryl softly, his lined face radiating kindness.

"You say that, but I've seen what a broken bone here and there does to a rider. There's only so many times you can break a teacup and glue it back together before it doesn't look or work like a one anymore."

*

Rick kissed the top of Carl's head as he sat back in his favorite armchair and switched on the Superbike race. Carl was gurgling and squealing, revelling in his new-found voice. He reached up to try to grab Rick's long nose, but was foiled as Rick moved away.

"Look Carl, this is Daddy's job. You and me are going to watch this while your mom and grandpa aren't here."

Richard was at the race with his junior team, and Lori was out at lunch with her parents. She needed a break, she said – from the baby, from the ranch. She needed a lot of breaks, Rick found. He loved when it was he and Carl alone, though. He liked bottle feeding, and burping, and he didn't even mind changing diapers. The love he felt for his son was overwhelming, never in his life had he thought he'd feel like this. It made sitting at home while the season went on without him a lot more bearable than he'd anticipated.

He eased his hand away from under Carl's feet, and turned it around to look at the two swollen red vertical scars at the back of it. He'd broken the second, third and fourth metacarpals and undergone a three hour operation. Siddiq, his doctor, had said he was healing well, and Rick closed his hand into a fist, just like he'd been told to do as part of his rehabilitation. He winced, trying to focus on being able to grip onto a handlebar sooner rather than later.

On television, the race from Los Angeles was beginning. Rick felt his heart fluttering as if he was right there on the grid with them all. He'd missed the previous race in San Francisco, and would miss at least the next four. Not being there to defend his Championship was hard, but not as gut-wrenchingly awful as it perhaps once would have felt, he realised.

"Look!" he said to Carl, holding the baby up and pointing at the screen. "That red bike is Shane Walsh, who daddy grew up with. The black and orange striped one is Zeke, a new rider," Rick swallowed away the lump in his throat. "And that purple and silver one at the front is Daryl... Daryl Dixon."

Carl burped, and Rick laughed.

"Yeah, Daryl would love it if he knew that was your reaction to him."

As Rick watched the race unfold, he barely even realised that he was holding his breath. Christ, Daryl was exciting to watch; dancing his bike around the track, leaning it so far down near the ground around each bend that it was a miracle he even stayed upright – it was no wonder that the fans adored him. As soon as Daryl crossed the line to win, Rick switched the television off. He cradled Carl in his arms as he walked into the kitchen to make up a bottle. As he waited for the water to boil, he checked his mobile to see if Lori had texted him. She hadn't.

He held Carl to his chest as he looked out of the kitchen window to the paddocks and meadows beyond. Lori had been on at him about wanting a swimming pool. Rick thought the ranch was just fine as it was, and he didn't relish the idea of ruining the greenery with concrete.

His thoughts turned to Daryl as he laid Carl down onto the kitchen table to change Carl's diaper. Another act that would earn him a disapproving look from Lori, no doubt. She worried about germs. As a baby, Rick had been changed in garages, and worse, his dad had told him.

He had barely had a minute to himself since Carl had been born. Lori had had a long, hard labour; her naturally thin frame making things difficult for her. She'd given up trying to breastfeed almost immediately, and was more than happy to stay in bed while Rick got up to do the feeds, and to comfort Carl when he cried. She looked wan and tired; Rick worried that she wasn't bonding with Carl, but she insisted that she was fine. With Rick being in hospital for a week, and then only having one fully functioning hand, Lori's mother had helped them out, trying to show Lori how to mix up formula and how warm to have the bath water. Somehow Rick had ended up learning more.

Carl's diaper changed, Rick made himself a coffee, grabbing two chocolate chip cookies from the jar as he went back into the lounge – he wouldn't be back racing for at least two months, what harm was eating a cookie or two going to be? He switched the television back on, and saw Daryl's angular face on the screen as he sat down. Rick couldn't help but laugh at Daryl's one word answers as the press asked him about his win; he was abrupt bordering on rude.

Bar a text message the morning of his operation, he hadn't heard from Daryl. _Glad you're mostly okay, take care of that hand Grimes_ , was all it had said. Rick had had every intention of inviting him over for breakfast some morning when Lori was out, but he'd been visiting the doctor every day, and they'd thought Carl had colic at one point, and then the garage ceiling had been leaking, and before Rick knew it, two weeks had passed and Daryl had gone to California for the races in San Francisco and Los Angeles.

Carl was just drifting off in his arms when he heard a knock at the kitchen window, followed by the creak of the back door opening.

"Anyone home?"

Rick immediately recognised the voice of Alan, his father in law. He was here often enough to let himself in, but he'd never visited when it was just Rick at home on his own before.

Rick motioned for Alan to sit down on the couch, asking him if he wanted a coffee. Alan refused, sitting down slowly, and groaning as his knees creaked. They made small talk; Rick telling him what had happened in the race, his voice sounding weird when he said Daryl's name.

"I'm surprised you didn't stay home to watch it, Alan. Or have you lost interest now I'm not there?" Rick joked.

Alan normally laughed at Rick's stupid attempts at humour, but today his face remained stony.

"I wanted to see you while I knew my daughter wasn't here."

Rick heard a distinct hardness in Alan's voice. He sat back in his chair, taking Carl's tiny hand in his own.

"I feel like you haven't called in just to be friendly," Rick said.

Alan nodded.

"I like you, Rick, I do. But I thought you would have done the decent thing by my daughter by now."

"Excuse me?"

"You're a good man, Rick. Irresponsible, getting my daughter pregnant, but you're still young."

Rick swallowed hard to give himself time to consider his response. He liked Alan, but he wasn't going to be spoken to like he was a child. His own dad had never treated him as anything but an equal.

"It's 2000, I don't see why it's such a big deal... "

"Let me just stop you there, son." Alan held his hand up, patronising as fuck. "I support your career - but motorcycle racing is a dangerous game. If anything should happen to you, I wouldn't want my daughter and grandson to be left with no legal right over all that money you've made."

"Nothing's going to happen to me. And even if it does, they will be taken care of." Rick felt his face redden and his temper rise.

Alan's face remained calm, impassive.

"I don't doubt that for a second, Rick. But yet I'm sitting here looking at the scars and swelling on that busted-up hand of yours and wondering what would happen if it had been worse. If Lori is living under this roof with the child she's given you, there's no reason why you can't make it right like all good Christian folk should."

"Alan I respect you, but..."

"Do the right thing, Rick, or I will move Lori and Carl back into my home where they will be taken care of."

*

Daryl cursed Rick's name as he glanced at the workbench he'd been pushed against on New Year's Eve. His garage was the place where he'd always been able to forget all that crap, and now it was just a shitstorm of memories too. He switched the radio off irritably, music really was a heap of junk these days.

Man, he missed Jack running around the yard, he thought, as he walked up the porch steps. Place just wasn't as homely without him. A weekend with no racing and no Rick was always like this – solitary, grey, achingly quiet.

As Daryl went inside, he trod on something on the welcome mat. Clearly he'd not heard the mailman while he was in the garage. He wasn't used to getting mail, and certainly not mail that came in a small envelope with his name and address embossed in gold on the front. He picked it up, leaving an oily smear as he tore it open and pulled out a piece of thick cream-colored card.

_You are cordially invited to the wedding of -_

Daryl threw the piece of paper into the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you who consistently read and/or leave comments, it means so much, and I hope all of you have recovered from certain events in TWD... at least our wonderful Rickyl isn't necessarily gone for good, at the very least.


	15. 15.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Daryl thought about the missed calls and ignored text messages from Rick; all saying how they needed to talk, he had something to tell Daryl, it was extremely urgent... blah fucking blah. Daryl wasn't stupid, or naive; he'd known that someone like Rick would want to marry the mother of his child, but man, the cold fucking way he'd done it, sending out the invite like that without any prior warning..._
> 
>  
> 
> _It hurt. He'd never say that out loud, not even to Michonne – but it had. Rick had always made him feel like he was worth a damn, but clearly not enough of a damn when it came to living a conventional life like Rick was so clearly destined to do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this one out a bit earlier than I anticipated, hope it's okay!
> 
> And wow, chapter 15... I'm not sure if there will be 30 or 31 chapters at this point, but either way, we're basically halfway through. This chapter is still based in 2000, so we've got 18 or so years of drama still to go with these boys ;)
> 
> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/  
> I also post updates there about posting times and how far behind I am!

"He did _what_?"

Daryl turned around nervously, paranoid that one of their fellow passengers would be eavesdropping.

"Keep yer fuckin' voice down, Michonne," he whispered.

He heard the rattling noise of the drinks trolley as the flight attendant made his way down the aisle of their aeroplane. Michonne ordered a vodka tonic and then swiftly turned back to Daryl.

"I don't quite know how to respond," she said indignantly, shaking her drink to make the ice cubes clink. "I mean, when is this _farce_ of a wedding even _happening_?"

Daryl pulled his tray-table down and began to pick at his bag of chips.

"Last weekend in August, between the New Orleans and Houston races."

"That's pretty damn soon."

Daryl crammed a fistful of chips into his mouth and chewed.

"True love can't wait, I guess," he sneered.

"They're saying that Rick could come back for Houston," Michonne said. "Think that hand will hinder him in any way?"

"No way," Daryl emptied the remaining contents of the bag into his open mouth. "He's like me, even if he had no arms or legs he'd still try an' go faster than anyone else." He paused, studying Michonne's face thoughtfully. "So yer not goin' ta tell me ta go ta the wedding, then?"

Michonne spluttered.

"Are you for real? Of course I'm fucking not."

"Thought ya would," Daryl shrugged. "Since ya've always gotta be the voice of reason."

"Sending a wedding invitation to an ex when you've not even told them you're getting married is not what I would call justification for being _reasonable_."

Michonne downed her drink and Daryl barely held in his bemused grin.

"So if Rick should happen ta try ta get ta me through you... "

"He will be ignored," Michonne replied haughtily. "You can trust me on that."

"Okay, _jeez_ 'Chonne." Daryl smiled at her disgust about the whole thing; she seemed to be angry enough for the both of them. Daryl had never met anyone who'd been as loyal to him as Michonne had over the years – about everything.

She took her paperwork from her briefcase and began to work on the press schedule for the race weekend in Indianapolis ahead. Daryl put his headphones on and attempted to get some sleep.

Instead, he thought about the missed calls and ignored text messages from Rick; all saying how they needed to talk, he had something to tell Daryl, it was extremely urgent... blah fucking blah. Daryl wasn't stupid, or naive; he'd known that someone like Rick would want to marry the mother of his child, but man, the cold fucking way he'd done it, sending out the invite like that without any prior warning...

It hurt. He'd never say that out loud, not even to Michonne – but it had. Rick had always made him feel like he was worth a damn, but clearly not enough of a damn when it came to living a conventional life like Rick was so clearly destined to do.

Daryl turned the volume up on his CD player and visualised the track layout instead. At least that was something he could win at.

*

"It's not like you to schedule our weekly appointment for a Sunday afternoon," Doctor Siddiq Nash commented as he handed Rick a large plastic bottle that was filled with water.

On the chair beside Siddiq's desk, Rick began to bend his wrist upward. Attending this state of the art clinic once a week was part of his rehab, and he liked the young doctor who had the task of getting his hand healed enough for him to go back racing.

"So," Siddiq began. "This exercise is... "

"...Radial and ulnar deviation," Rick interrupted, rolling his eyes. "I know, Siddiq. We do this every week. _I_ could be a damn physio at this point."

Siddiq sat down opposite Rick in the large, airy therapy room.

"Shitty mood, huh?"

Rick lowered the water bottle down onto the table, before lifting it towards his chest once more. Sometimes he felt like he did these exercises in his sleep.

"Just pissed at being stuck at home instead of at the racetrack. I mean, it's great to have this time with Carl, but..." He sighed, appreciating what a good listener as well as doctor Siddiq was. "Made my appointment for today on purpose so I'd miss the Indianapolis race. Every time I see a race start without me, I just feel frustrated."

Siddiq took the water bottle from Rick, and handed him a pen. Rick grasped it like he'd done so many times before, and rotated his forearm.

"It won't be long," Siddiq reassured, nodding with encouragement as Rick continued to grip the pen. "When you get back on your bike, this will all seem like a bad dream. And surely all the wedding planning is taking your mind off things?"

Rick snorted.

"You think I have any say in the planning? Apart from the place and time, Lori's pretty much left me out of the entire thing." He winked. "Not that I'm complaining."

"That reminds me," Siddiq got up and rifled through his desk drawer. He handed Rick a cream envelope. "No point posting my invite acceptance back to you when you're right here."

Rick took it with surprise.

"Oh! I didn't even realise Lori had written them, let alone posted them. See what I mean about not knowing anything?"

Siddiq laughed.

"I got it last week. Nerves kicked in yet?"

Rick made a face.

"Like you wouldn't believe. The thought of making a speech is more nerve-wracking than going back to racing." He paused. "So what do you think? Will I definitely be back for Houston?"

Siddiq smiled.

"Best get your helmet out, Rick. You're good to go."

*

Rick arrived back home to find a scribbled note from Lori saying that she and Carl were at her mom's. His dad was in Indianapolis with his junior team, and the ranch had never seemed bigger or lonelier.

At a loss for something to do, Rick sat down at his computer with a glass of water, checking his phone for messages. Nothing, apart from a text from Hershel telling him that Shane had won the Indianapolis race, and Daryl had been second. Shane was the only person who could come close to Daryl on track this year, and Rick almost felt itchy with the longing to get back out there. He wasn't sure if that was because he wanted to race, or purely so he could see Daryl again.

He'd tried to text and call Daryl more times than he could count, but hadn't gotten a single response. He'd considered driving up to the cabin to tell Daryl about the wedding, but there was always _something_ – either Daryl was in a different city, or Rick was busy with Carl, or something at the ranch. Or Lori would be in a mood – she complained of being tired all the time, and of being bored of being stuck at the ranch on her own. Wedding planning seemed to have cheered her up, temporarily at least. Rick was counting on things being a little easier once Carl got bigger.

Rick's internet finally connected, and he clicked onto his email account, typing in Michonne's email address and then pausing. She was the only person he knew that Daryl might listen to.

_Hi Michonne,_

_I hate to just email you like this out of the blue but I really need to get in touch with Daryl. He won't answer my calls or texts and I don't know who else to ask. I know you know some stuff about me and him. I really need your help. If he doesn't want to talk it's fine but just tell him I care about him, okay? I need him to know that._

_Rick_

Rick pressed send before he could change his mind. Even now, with the wedding only weeks away, he was still in shock at how quickly it had all happened. After Lori's father had basically given him an ultimatum, he'd asked Lori if she felt the same as her dad, which she'd taken as a proposal. He'd been swept away in all her excited chat about having the perfect family, the perfect home, the perfect magical day where they'd be surrounded by the people they loved the most. And then Rick had told his dad, and Richard's face had positively beamed at the prospect. He hadn't put the brakes on when he had the chance, and now it was too late. And he couldn't lie, he _did_ want that idyllic family life that Lori spoke of.

But Daryl existed. And he didn't know any of this had happened.

Rick couldn't breathe when he thought about it.

*

Daryl was leaving his Indianapolis hotel room when he saw Shane outside the elevator. The race had ended over four hours ago, but Daryl still wanted to punch Shane's lights out, after the Sanctuary rider had almost pushed him off his bike when he was overtaking for the lead.

Shane's face curled into a look of contempt as he saw Daryl approach.

"Here we go," Shane rolled his eyes. "Dixon about to go off on one, like he always does when someone beats him."

"Try an' push me off the track again, an' you'll be sorry," Daryl raged. "Sick of yer bullshit, Walsh."

Shane shook his head arrogantly.

"What are you? Some kind of pussy? Don't like hard racing? Don't take part."

"Yer pullin' this shit EVERY RACE," Daryl replied, feeling his temper rising. It was true, Shane had no respect for his competitors, barging past people on track with little regard for anyone's safety. Somehow, he kept getting away with it. "Bet Negan tells ya to ride like that, don't he."

Shane's expression darkened.

"I don't need Negan giving me tips on how to race. It's what we do, Daryl. None of us are afraid to get hurt or worse, if it means we win. And you know it."

Daryl swung an arm across his chest.

"Not carin' if ya die or not don't make ya more of a _man_. Ain't nothin' good about riskin' everyone else's life, either. That's asshole behaviour."

"Whatever, Dixon," Shane waved a hand dismissively. "How's about you just go downstairs to the bar and order a whisky. That's the Dixon way, huh? Not surprised Rick ain't friends with you anymore."

"The hell you say?"

"Well _is_ he?" Shane asked. "In fact, tell me _this_ Dixon, what's the deal with you and Grimes being best friends one minute and not even speaking the next? Been going on for years between you two. It's weird as fuck, man. Like when you break up with a chick but keep going back – not that you'd know, never seen you with a girl. Guess they don't want your ugly ass, I mean your balls must be blue. Unless you're dipping your wick in Michonne, she's a hot piece of ass for 40..."

"Shut yer fuckin' mouth, Walsh," Daryl warned, his face scarlet. "One more word about Michonne an' I'll make sure you ain't got a tongue in yer head for much longer." For a terrifying second he thought Shane was going to allude to something happening between he and Rick. He hated Shane, fucking hated him. Always had, but right now more than ever.

"Touched a nerve?" Shane grinned.

Daryl was more than happy to hit below the belt when he had to.

"Ya goin' to the weddin'?" Daryl asked slyly, revelling in how Shane's face fell.

"What?"

"Guess ya ain't," Daryl teased. "Didn't ya date Lori first? Maybe she didn't want to invite her ex. But then, why would ya want to see the _better_ man marry the girl ya could've had, if ya hadn't wanted to stick yer dick in other places. An' there ain't nothin' wrong between me an' Grimes. Fuckin' kills ya that he was your best friend until I came along, don't it. Yer never anyone's first choice, Walsh. Not even Negan's."

Daryl saw Shane clench his fists. His expression was cold and bitter as he tried and failed to stare Daryl down.

"You're done, Dixon," Shane raged. "I'm going to fucking end you."

*

"There's last night's casserole in the microwave if you want lunch," Lori said idly, not even looking up as Rick arrived home from a meeting with Hershel. She was sitting on the couch in pyjamas, watching some daytime chat show; a pile of fashion magazines scattered on the floor at her feet. There were three empty coffee mugs on the table, which Rick picked up, along with a plate that had a half-eaten sandwich on it.

"You want the rest of this?" he asked.

Lori turned around, holding her hands up and wiggling her fingers.

"I'm waiting for my nail polish to dry, Rick."

Rick sighed and walked into the kitchen. He'd come from the Team Greene factory where everyone had been excited and happy to see him - to his own home, where Lori didn't seem to feel the same. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her calling his name.

"What's up?" He walked back into the lounge.

Lori nodded her head towards the pile of envelopes on the coffee table.

"We have almost all of the invites back. Only two people can't make it of the ones we've gotten back."

"Great," Rick nodded.

Lori turned back to her TV show.

"Bit rude of some people to _still_ not have returned theirs," she moaned. "But then I expect nothing less from the likes of Daryl Dixon."

Rick froze. He stared at the back of Lori's head, waiting for her to elaborate, but she said nothing.

"...What?" his voice trembled.

Lori finally turned around from her spot on the couch, an exasperated look on her face.

"What do you mean, _what_? I sent him an invitation weeks ago. When we wrote our guest list, you didn't mention him, so I figured you'd just forgotten about him."

Rick leant against the table, his head spinning. He closed his eyes and took two deep breaths, Lori staring at him as he did so.

"You... you sent _Daryl_ an invitation to our wedding."

Lori stood up, face beginning to flush with impatience.

"Jesus Christ, yes Rick, I sent your lifelong friend Daryl a fucking invitation. Is there some sort of problem here?"

Rick wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was dizzy; the room was spinning and he felt like the floor was about to drop away from his feet.

"There's no problem," he rasped.

From upstairs came the noise of Carl crying. Rick and Lori stared at one another, before Lori held her hands up in front of Rick's face.

"I _told_ you Rick – _nail polish_."

Rick ground his teeth together.

" _I'll_ get him, then."

*

"Fuckin' asshole..."

Daryl took one last drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out on the side of his boot. He stood up, watching as Rick's truck pulled up outside the cabin. Daryl was halfway through packing for the New Orleans race, and he didn't need this shit. Not now, not ever. Who the hell did Grimes think he was?

As Rick got out of the truck, Daryl noticed that he'd gained some weight around his face. Looked good on him, that much Daryl had to admit. Grimes always looked a little on the gaunt side when he was racing, and a couple of months off had put a bit more colour in his cheeks, even if he still had the telltale dark circles of a new father under his eyes.

Rick walked to the passenger side, leant in, and Daryl swallowed hard as he saw Rick lift out a babies car seat and changing bag. He stood up, his plan of telling Rick to fuck off now forgotten about. He didn't know how to react to meeting Carl, and the cabin wasn't exactly baby-proofed.

Daryl's eyes met Rick's as Rick finally got to the bottom step of the porch. How many times had they stood on this spot, talking about 'them', whatever that was. The laughing, the arguing, the kissing. Daryl couldn't hold Rick's gaze for long, quickly looking back down at his feet. He didn't give the baby so much as a glance.

Rick cleared his throat.

"Can I come in? Look Daryl I know I don't have a right to ask to set foot back in your house, but Carl needs changing."

With a grunt, Daryl opened the front door and let Rick follow him inside.

"Anywhere you want me to do this? Might not smell so good," Rick asked.

Daryl sniffed.

"Don't care. Wherever ya want."

Rick went into the spare room; Daryl hovering at the window as he waited. From the other room, he could hear Rick singing nursery rhymes to the baby, and occasionally laughing softly.

 _"Itsy bitsy spider climbed up the waterspout, down came the rain and washed the spider out,"_ Rick cooed.

Daryl heard the baby giggle, and bit down onto the side of his cheek to stop himself from smiling.

 _"Out came the sun and dried up all the rain, Itsy bitsy spider climbed up the spout again_."

Daryl pretended to be fiddling with the TV remote when Rick emerged back into the lounge with Carl, holding a plastic bag.

"Just going to throw this in the back of the truck," he told Daryl, keeping the bag at arm's length.

"Ya can just chuck it in the kitchen bin, ain't no big deal," Daryl shrugged, but Rick shook his head.

"Trust me, you don't want this in here."

Rick put Carl back into the carrier and placed it on the floor. When he didn't come back inside right away, Daryl looked out of the window and saw that Rick was on his phone.

Daryl leant against the window, arms crossed, as he stared down at the baby. The baby stared back with its blue eyes. Yup, he was a Grimes alright. Not only the eyes, but the thatch of dark hair on his head.

"What ya lookin' at?" Daryl teased. The baby giggled, and Daryl blew him a raspberry. "Find that funny, do ya?"

He continued making stupid faces at Carl, until he heard the creak of the front door, and quickly hardened his facial expression again as Rick walked back inside.

"Hershel called," Rick explained. "Sorry."

Daryl shrugged. "'S alright."

"Thanks. We were just talking about me coming back for the Houston race."

"Didn't ask, so... " Daryl chewed on a ragnail.

Rick bent down to take Carl out of his chair. Daryl tried not to notice the tender way Rick cradled the little boy in his arms, or the adoring look in his eyes as he smiled at his son.

He was too tired to get angry at Rick, so there was a weary tone in his voice as he spoke.

"Rick, if yer here about me not sendin' yer weddin' invite back... "

Rick shook his head rapidly.

"I'm here to apologise about that. Lori – she did all the invites, said she'd sent one to you because she thought I'd just forgotten to include you on the list. I didn't know, Daryl. I _didn't_. I promise I didn't."

Daryl felt his resolve wavering when he heard the desperate croak in Rick's voice. Daryl didn't doubt that what he was being told was true, not for a second. Rick was an asshole but he was as honest as they came.

Rick sat down onto the couch, keeping Carl in his arms.

"I tried to tell you so many times. Texts, calls... I even emailed Michonne."

Daryl crossed his arms.

"She reply?"

"No," Rick replied.

"Hmmph," Daryl huffed. He wasn't sure to be pissed at Michonne, or proud of her.

"Aren't you going to get mad?" Rick implored. "'Cause maybe I deserve it, I don't know..."

"What's the point?" Daryl sighed, weary resignation in his voice. "Ya do what ya want, Grimes. Know ya always do. Know yer _gonna_. Comin' here like yer an innocent party. Like yer bein' _forced_ ta get married."

Daryl glared down at Rick as he sat there with a hangdog expression. Carl was gurgling and waving his arms about. Kid was cute, there was no getting away from that fact. Rick looked up, and Daryl tried to stare him down, but it was impossible when Daryl saw Rick's dark stubble peppered along the side of that strong jaw; wiry hair beginning to show its natural curl because it hadn't been cut in weeks.

"Lori's dad visited me," Rick launched into an explanation. "Said I had to do the honourable thing after knocking his daughter up, or words to that effect. Pretty much threatened to move her and Carl back in with them if I didn't. I just... I'm weak, I suppose. Sometimes." Rick's voice lowered to barely a whisper.

Daryl chewed his bottom lip. He wasn't going to crumble, no matter how much the quiver in Rick's voice was going straight to his heart.

"Ya can go, now ya've done yer apology, just so ya know." Daryl nodded towards the front door.

As if on cue, Carl started to cry, which soon descended into an ear-splitting scream. Rick tried to soothe him, before looking first to the changing bag, then up at Daryl.

"He's hungry."

"Do what ya need to," Daryl replied.

"I have to heat his formula bottle under the faucet, that okay?" Rick pulled the bottle from his bag, awkwardly holding onto Carl as he did so. He managed to stand up, looking around desperately before beginning to lower Carl back into his chair. Carl's wails became even louder.

Daryl lost patience with Rick's dithering, walking over and scooping Carl from his arms. Rick looked at him with surprise at first, before giving a grateful nod and going into the kitchen to heat the bottle.

Daryl hadn't held a baby since he was maybe nine or ten. Some cousin had come over with her kid, even though at the time she was barely into her late teens. She'd gone out drinking with his mom and dad, and left Daryl with the baby for the night. Merle had been off somewhere doing God knows what, so it'd just been Daryl and the kid.

Daryl was pretty sure he'd felt less nervous then than he did right now, holding Rick's child in his arms, and trying to gently rock him so he'd stop crying.

" _Shh shh shh_ ," he soothed, pacing around the living room. Carl's sobbing gradually lessened, until he was silent; big eyes like saucers staring up at Daryl.

Daryl could hear the sound of running water coming from the kitchen. He thought about how Rick was at the sink, preparing to feed his child at the same spot where once, he'd fucked Daryl so hard that both of them could barely stand. Daryl scrunched his eyes closed momentarily, trying to keep those kind of thoughts away. Instead he continued talking softly to Carl to calm him.

"Yer dad's makin' yer lunch now, okay? So quit yer yellin', Sprocket."

Daryl heard a footstep, and turned to see Rick leaning against the doorframe into the kitchen, warmed bottle in hand.

"Sprocket?" Rick smiled. There was a croak in his voice.

Daryl couldn't keep the blush from spreading across his cheeks.

"What? Looks like a Sprocket, don't he?"

"Guess he does."

Rick entered the lounge, setting the bottle down onto the coffee table and holding his arms out so that Daryl could hand Carl over. Daryl held his breath as Rick took the baby from him, their hands briefly brushing as he did so.

Rick sat back down, and Carl guzzled down the milk.

"I didn't come here just to apologise."

Daryl rubbed his forehead. He wished the fucking kid wasn't here so he and Rick could properly have at it, but it didn't feel right, arguing in front of a baby. He didn't say anything, just kept his spot at the window. He needed a fucking smoke, not one of Rick's speeches.

"I _want_ you there, Daryl," Rick's voice trembled.

Daryl burst out laughing; harsh and bitter.

"Have ya lost yer mind?"

Rick's face was serious.

"I know, I know. It's insane and inappropriate, and I know you won't come. And the way I feel about her... well, it's not... you _know_ it's not how I feel about... but," he paused. "I want you to be there." Suddenly, Rick looked older than his 25 years; desperate. "I know I'm a selfish bastard for asking. I've done so many things just for myself without thinking of anyone else, and I know it's a flaw I have to deal with, but – I just want this one last thing."

Daryl had his hands on either side of his head by now, standing right in front of Rick, exasperated.

" _Why_? We ain't friends. We ain't ever _been_ friends, not the proper kind." Daryl exclaimed, pulling his cigarettes from his back pocket, before glancing at Carl and putting them back.

"No," Rick nodded in agreement. "We haven't been 'friends'. But we've been..."

"Yeah," Daryl replied grimly. "We've _been_. And ya still think I'm gonna come to yer fuckin' weddin'? Fuck off, Grimes."

For once, Rick didn't try to put up a fight, and within five minutes, he was gone.

Daryl ate a chicken sandwich and drank half a carton of milk, before finishing packing and then showering. He padded into his bedroom naked, and immediately checked his mobile. Biting his lip, he opened up the sole text message he'd received, expecting it to be Rick pleading for him to talk to him. It was Michonne telling him that he had to do a photo shoot and interview for some new bike magazine. Daryl threw the phone onto his bed, then stood and stared out of the window to the woods beyond.

Fucking Grimes.

*

_Daryl was kissing him, his tongue warm and slippery, and his bare skin damp. He was straddling Rick, his thighs strong, and framing a cock that was jutting out and beginning to shine with pre-come. Rick reached out to swipe a finger across it, before bringing the finger to his mouth and sucking it slowly and deliberately. Daryl arched his back, tipped his head back, and moaned._

_"Suck my cock," Daryl demanded._

_Rick nodded, his breathing becoming shallow as Daryl rose to his knees and moved upwards on the bed so that his legs were either side of Rick's chest. He placed his hands behind Rick's head, gripping onto the headboard. His swollen dick was now level with Rick's face, and Rick tilted his head forwards to take the thick length into his mouth._

_"Suck it hard," Daryl rasped, pushing that hard, wet length between Rick's lips._

_Rick gasped for air as Daryl started to fuck his mouth, making Rick almost choke. Rick could taste the first spurts of come and then..._

Rick's body jerked and he opened his eyes. Sunlight was streaming through the gap in the curtains, and through bleary eyes he saw that it was just after 6am. He blinked and pressed a hand against his chest, alarmed at how much his heart was hammering. His underarms were prickling with sweat, and underneath his pyjama bottoms, his dick was hard and straining uncomfortably against the fabric. It wasn't the first time he'd dreamt about sex with Daryl, but it was certainly the longest he'd gone before waking up.

He could hear Lori in the bathroom, and willed his erection to go down. If she hadn't been in there, he would have gone straight in himself and jerked off as quickly as he could – something that he was doing more and more lately. He and Lori had had sex once since Carl was born, and not at all since Rick had hurt his hand. Rick understood, he did – but he wasn't convinced that Lori's disinterest was entirely to do with the baby.

Rick heard the bathroom door open, and quickly rolled over onto his stomach. He could hear Lori opening drawers and getting changed. Neither of them spoke.

"You could come back to bed for a while," Rick finally suggested, his voice muffled against the pillow.

"I have to drop Carl off at my mom's, you know that," Lori replied, suddenly pulling the sheets off Rick in an attempt to be jovial. Rick lay there prone. Lori was having her bachelorette party that evening, and Rick was being forced by his dad to go to a bar.

"Get up!" Lori laughed.

Rick cleared his throat.

"Can't. Bit of an um... _situation_ going on here."

He felt the bed dip as Lori sat down.

" _Oh_. Do you want me to... " she began.

Rick squeezed his eyes shut in embarrassment. Was it normal – to feel so mortified in front of his soon-to-be wife?

"Only if you want to," he mumbled.

"I know we've not... you know," Lori said quietly. "But since Carl, I'm just... so tired, and I really haven't felt up to it, and... "

"It's fine," Rick rolled over and sat up, his erection dwindling rapidly thanks to the topic of conversation.

"I can give you a hand job or something, if I have to."

"If you treat it as _having_ to, I don't think you should," Rick said with a shrug. When Lori didn't reply, he lifted up a towel and headed into the bathroom for a shower.

*

When one of his mechanics ordered everyone shots of Jagermeister, Rick admitted defeat. He'd had a good time at the dive bar in Atlanta that his dad had organised for his bachelor party, but anything more than beer would have him on the floor sooner rather than later. In his head, he could imagine Daryl's disdain at not having shots of Jack Daniels instead.

Siddiq clapped him on the back.

"Not partaking?"

Rick pushed his half-full bottle of Budweiser away. The table was littered with empties, and overflowing ashtrays. Someone had broken a glass, and it crunched underneath Rick's feet.

"Hell, no," Rick slurred.

Siddiq laughed.

"Go on, you're allowed to puke, it's your right."

Rick shook his head grimly.

"As my doctor, shouldn't you be telling me to go home?"

"As long as no harm comes to that hand, you have your fun," Siddiq gave a shrug.

"My head isn't going to be fun in the morning," Rick replied, standing up and looking around for his jacket. He swayed from side to side as he tried to stop his vision blurring.

"Let's get you home," Rick heard his dad say, and he felt a hand snake around his waist to guide him outside.

In the fresh air, Rick felt himself begin to sober up. He sat down in the passenger seat, and saw Richard glance at him.

"You okay? Not going to throw up in my car, are you?"

"I just need my bed," Rick replied. "Thanks for tonight, dad. It was good fun."

Richard turned down the volume of the radio, and glanced across at Rick.

"I invited the right people, then?" he asked.

Rick nodded.

"Sure! It was good to see my crew again, I've missed them while I've not been able to race."

Richard whistled through his teeth.

"Thought about asking Daryl too, but... "

Rick turned his head to look out of the window as his dad sped along the streets.

"Sure wish you two would go back to being the way you used to be, Rick," Richard pondered. "I'm happy you asked me to be your best man, but I can't help thinking that it should be Daryl who's doing it."

Rick was too drunk and tired to cope with the way the conversation was going.

"Just became different people, dad," he offered by way of explanation. "You weren't friends with any of your rivals either."

"I didn't grow up with any of my rivals, though. You and Daryl's situation was a lot different," Richard mused. "You ever talk to Lori about any of this?"

Rick couldn't keep the disdain from his voice when he replied.

"Nope. We don't talk about things like that."

"I told your mom everything," Richard said wistfully. "There wasn't anything we couldn't talk about. It's a good foundation for a marriage, to talk."

He patted Rick's hand.

"You two will get there, Rick. And the jitters are normal. Just think, in a couple of weeks, you'll be married and back in Houston racing. How you're feeling tonight will be forgotten about."

Rick thanked his dad, and they were both silent and thoughtful for the rest of the journey home. Back at the ranch, Richard retired to bed on the other side of the house, and Rick got changed into boxers and lay on the bed watching television. Carl was staying with Lori's parents, and Rick found that he felt adrift, not having the little boy in the next room.

He heard Lori stumbling up the stairs, and smiled wryly to himself. He had sobered up a little, and was looking forward to mocking her drunken state. The bedroom floor was flung open, and she tottered inside.

"You look hot," Rick said. She did – she had her hair down for the first time in months, and she was wearing a silver handkerchief top and black satin mini-skirt that showed off the figure she'd hidden in baggy sweaters and loose jeans all year. Her eye make-up was slightly smudged, but it only added to her sultry, wanton look.

She stumbled as she approached the bed, and Rick sat up, watching appreciatively as she pulled off her clothes. She was staring at him, and Rick suddenly saw her as the flirtatious grid girl she had been when they'd met, not the easily irritated young mother she had become.

"Put your leathers on," she implored, her voice sounding low and husky in a way it used to.

"What?"

"I said, put your leathers on," Lori repeated, tracing a fingertip along Rick's inner thigh. He swallowed down a gasp; it had been so long – months. Without either Lori _or_ Daryl, and yeah, he was a dick for feeling pissed off that he'd gone from fucking both of them to neither.

Rick tiptoed to the room where he kept his racing gear and trophies, and retrieved an old pair of racing leathers. He stripped out of his boxers and pulled them on, leaving his chest exposed. He couldn't help but notice that they were even tighter than they normally were; shit, he really needed to train more for going back to racing.

When he returned to the bedroom, Lori was naked, and the television had been switched off. She smiled when she saw Rick, and beckoned him over with her long, pink fingernails.

"Just like you used to look," she ran her tongue along her top lip. Rick found her comment a little odd, but soon forgot about it as she stood up, sliding her hands down the front of his leathers.

She pushed him onto the bed, pulling the racesuit down past his knees and then straddling him. Rick didn't last long, certainly not long enough for Lori.

She lay against him afterwards, running her thin fingers through the dark hair on his chest. Daryl had done that sometimes, but only ever to point out how much hairier Rick was.

"I do love you," she told him, kissing his chin and wriggling her body so that she was lying right against him. "I know things have been hard lately. With Carl coming along, and you being injured, we've both been tired and stressed, don't you think?"

"Hmm," Rick nodded, wanting to roll over and go to sleep.

"Things will be better once we're married," she whispered.

*

Daryl sat at the dining table in Michonne's apartment, signing a new two year contract with Katana. He smirked to himself as he put the pen down.

"What?" Michonne questioned.

"I never told ya that Negan tried to get me to race for him. Came to the cabin and everythin'."

Michonne raised an eyebrow.

"He's made a good bike this year. If you ever wanted to leave Katana, I wouldn't hold it against you. Business is business, Daryl. I'd still consider you my friend."

Daryl shook his head, amused.

"I ain't ever gonna wear red, 'Chonne. Would sooner quit than have that prick be my boss."

Michonne squeezed Dary's shoulder as she stood up. She pointedly looked at her watch, and Daryl noticed two bottles of red wine on the kitchen counter.

"Am I keepin' you back from somethin'?"

"No, not at all," Michonne shook her head.

Daryl looked her up and down, noticing for the first time her yellow dress and heavy turquoise jewellery. He wasn't very observant when it came to women.

The buzzer rang, and Michonne told Daryl to help himself to a drink as she went to open the front door. Daryl heard a male voice as he opened the fridge and got himself a can of Coke, noticing a whole pecan pie and bowl of whipped cream on the top shelf.

"Hello there, Daryl."

Daryl turned to see Richard Grimes standing there. He'd never seen him so clean-shaven, and he could smell aftershave.

"You look weird," Daryl blurted out.

"Blunt as ever," Richard laughed, diffusing the odd nervous tension in the air. He pointed to his belt buckle. "Guess I've dropped a few pounds recently."

"Oh," Daryl shrugged and opened his Coke.

"Would you like to stay for dinner?" Michonne asked. "There's enough for three."

Daryl narrowed his eyes and looked from Richard to Michonne. Michonne's gaze was colder than normal. Daryl bit his bottom lip as he stifled a disbelieving laugh.

"Nah, I'm good. I'll pick up some take-out on my way back home."

Michonne could scarcely keep the relief from her voice as she put a hand on Daryl's back and ushered him out of the apartment.

"Drive safely!" she told him quickly. "Text me when you get home."

"If I could have a word, before you go..." Richard interrupted. He gave Michonne a nod, and she went back into the lounge, leaving Daryl and he alone.

"Don't need to worry about me telling anyone you were here," Daryl began. "I mean, it ain't got nothin' ta do with me."

"Just here on business," Richard said quickly, before his voice lowered. "I want to talk to you about Rick." He said down on the small couch in Michonne's hallway, and motioned for Daryl to join him.

"He okay?" Daryl asked. "Is it the kid, or his hand?"

"Nothing like that," Richard shook his head. "Carl's doing great, and Rick's healing well. No, it's about the wedding."

Daryl ran a hand through his hair. He didn't want to hear it, whatever it was.

"Rick asked me to be best man, and I'm proud as hell to do it," Richard said, looking at Daryl earnestly. "But it should be you, Daryl. You're his brother in all but blood. And I'm not going to pry about why you two don't seem to speak anymore this time, 'cause I know it can't be about racing – but I want to say to you now, you need to be there."

"I don't, Richard. Ya know I respect ya as much as I've ever respected anyone on this earth, but if this is an order, I ain't gonna obey it."

"You were invited..."

"So?" Daryl tried to keep the hurt from his voice. "Wedding's ain't my thing. Ain't nothin' personal against anyone."

Richard gave a heavy sigh.

"Then come for me, to help my son. Do you remember, years ago, we spoke about Rick – how he... you know... his _mind_."

Daryl dipped his head down.

"Yeah, I know," he replied quietly. "Guess he can get stressed, or at least he used to."

"A wedding's a big thing," Richard mused. "And I'm not stupid, I live in the same house as he and Lori, and I don't know... having a new baby is tough for any young couple."

Daryl swallowed hard. He didn't know whether the possibility that all was not well with Rick and Lori made him feel better or worse.

"So what I'm asking, Daryl, is for you just to be there, in case. You were the only one who could ever keep him steady if he had a big race coming up. His right hand man, I guess, and it's a damn shame that you seem to have forgotten that."

Daryl rubbed his eyes. Richard had done so much for him; so much that Daryl could never repay him. He didn't reply, his face reddening under that penetrating blue-eyed stare that his son had inherited.

"I'll think about it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Thanks so much for all the comments so far, they mean the world, they really do.
> 
> I will try to get the next chapter out before Christmas if I can, as long as extra work shifts don't get in the way. The next one will feature the big wedding (eep!)


	16. 16.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Rick rubbed his sweaty hands against his jacket as he heard the string quartet begin to play. He could hear a low murmur beginning from the guests. The honeysuckle hanging from the archway over the altar was making the air thick and fragrant, but Rick just felt unwell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really happy to be able to post this before Christmas, especially when it's the wedding chapter! 
> 
> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/  
> I also post updates there about posting times and how far behind I am!

"Nervous?"

"You know I am, dad."

Richard put his hands on Rick's shoulders and turned him around to face the mirror. Rick felt like a penguin in his black suit, waistcoat and bowtie. His hair was newly close-cropped, and when he ran a hand across his chin, he felt disconcertingly clean-shaven. Behind him, his dad was equally well-groomed, in a matching suit. Rick sniffed – Richard was even wearing cologne.

"You're almost as handsome as me," Richard joked, giving Rick a playful slap on the cheek. "And the ranch has never looked so good."

Together, they peered out of the bedroom window to the grounds below. A huge wedding tent took up most of the front paddock, and the trees around it were festooned with garlands of gardenias and roses, and twinkling fairy lights. It was all Lori's doing, of course, but Rick was impressed at how beautiful everything was. Under a canopy, a string quartet was setting up to play modern hits – Lonestar; Savage Garden... all the recent crap that Lori liked and Rick hated. Waiting staff were wandering around with trays of canapes and flutes of champagne, while the wedding planner milled about, ensuring that the ground was littered with rose petals where Lori would be walking towards the altar.

Richard glanced at his watch.

"You've got about fifty minutes to go, kid. Any fatherly advice you'd like me to impart?"

Rick swallowed.

"Yeah," he nodded. "How do I _do_ this?"

Richard smiled.

"Nerves are normal, but trust me, they'll be gone the second you see how beautiful she looks."

"Dad?" Rick held his hand out and saw how badly it was shaking.

"Rick? What is it?"

"I _can't_... "

He looked up at his dad with wide, fearful eyes, and saw Richard's brow furrow with worry. Rick let his dad guide him to the bed, where they both sat down. Richard rubbed his back gently; it reminded Rick of being a kid and finding his dad there when he'd woken up from a bad nightmare about his mom.

"This doesn't seem like good old-fashioned jitters."

"I don't think it is," Rick admitted. "I think it's _more_ than that. It's not just about today. It's about all of it – this is meant to be forever, and..."

Richard sighed.

"Wait here a second."

Rick listened as his dad went downstairs, then there was sound of clinking glass in the kitchen. Soon, Richard re-appeared with a tray holding a bottle of single malt Scotch, and two glasses.

"Been saving this bottle for years. An old present from a sponsor, back when I was racing."

Richard set the tray onto Rick's bedside table and carefully poured them each two fingers.

"Tell me everything, son."

Rick took a sip, then immediately grimaced as the Scotch hit the back of his throat. Richard laughed as Rick coughed.

"That'll put more hairs on your chest," Richard held his glass up to admire the colour, then took a drink. Rick persevered, but made a face each time he tasted it. How did Daryl love this stuff so much?

"I'd rather have a beer, dad," he admitted.

"Moments like this need something stronger."

"I don't know..." Rick began. "Shouldn't I feel _more_? The tent and flowers and all the guests – it feels like I'm being fake. Like this is only happening because Carl came along – I mean, it _is_ only happening because Carl came along."

Rick couldn't bear to see the look of concern on Richard's face. His dad topped up his glass.

"No marriage is perfect, Rick. It certainly doesn't start out that way."

"But the way you talk about Mom – the way your face lights up when you do. I always wanted that. Anything less seems... pointless."

"Hell, you think me and your mom had the perfect marriage? We didn't – we just worked hard at it because we loved each other. You were too young to remember some of the blazing rows we used to have." Richard pointed to a faded scar along the bridge of his nose. "Where'd you think _this_ came from?"

"Racing accident, I always figured," Rick replied, and Richard shook his head, laughing.

"No, no. She threw a plate at me."

"Did you deserve it?"

"Yeah probably. She caught me signing a fan's cleavage with a Sharpie. Given her reaction, I don't recommend it."

"I'm not sure Lori would care that much," Rick admitted, quickly feeling guilty for saying that when he saw a look of disappointment on his dad's face. "I'm kidding," he hurriedly added, but it was too late.

Richard put his hand on top of Rick's and patted it lightly.

"Lots of guests out there, waiting. And a lot of money's been spent. And a girl who bore your son on her way."

"I know."

"And a little boy who you both love very much."

"I _know_ , dad."

Richard stood up.

"Well," he began. "All you can do is try."

*

Rick was several whiskies gone by the time he emerged from the house to mingle with the guests. Under the trees, Lori's mother was holding Carl, who was red-faced and uncomfortable in a lacy white gown that Lori had insisted he wear - Rick hoped he'd remember to humiliate the boy with photos of it when he was older. His soon to be mother-in-law kissed Rick on each cheek. Rick realised that she wore the same perfume as Lori did.

"Beautiful weather," Rick commented. He was hopeless at small talk; something he and Daryl had in common.

"Everything is just perfect," Lori's mother smiled. "The way the ranch looks, the music, the flowers... and the bride is the most perfect thing of all."

"And the perfect groom, of course," Rick winked in an attempt at a joke, but he didn't get a response. He gave a cough, poking the toe of his shoe against the tree trunk.

"Don't scratch your shoes," Lori's mother snapped.

"I'll take the little one," a booming voice behind them suddenly said, and Lori's father approached, taking Carl from his wife's arms and letting her go back to the room where the bridal party were.

Behind Alan's head, more guests were beginning to arrive, and the rows of white wooden chairs were filling up rapidly. Rick nodded a hello at Hershel and his daughter, and gave a wave when he saw some of his mechanics, who all looked extremely odd out of their usual greasy overalls.

"I'm extremely happy this day has come," Alan said, shaking Rick's hand. His grip was firm; even a tad too tight. "The ranch looks good, outside anyway, if not inside - Lori has plans for a new bathroom and kitchen once all of this is over."

"She does?" Rick asked, his eyes narrowing. _Nobody_ was touching the kitchen, he decided. It was the place his mom had made him toast and oatmeal; where she would always be when he arrived home from school, cradling mugs of coffee and reading the trashy novels she enjoyed. It was the place where he and his dad had healed over failed cooking attempts after she'd died; the place where he, Daryl and Richard had chatted and laughed, and made it feel homely once more.

"Oh yes," Alan nodded self-assuredly. "You can't keep it the way it is, Rick. Move with the times. It's not the 1980s anymore – my daughter deserves the best that money can buy and somewhere she can make her own, a place to be proud of."

Rick grit his teeth and put his hands on his hips. Suddenly he wanted to punch Alan's reddened, plump, self-satisfied face in.

"Well, we can sort all of that out in good time," he eventually replied.

"Oh we will, we will," Alan nodded, bouncing Carl up and down. "This little one isn't going to live anywhere less than perfect." He gripped Rick's cheeks in between two chubby fingers. "I could always move him into _my_ home, of course, if yours wasn't suitable." He boomed with laughter. Rick sucked in his cheeks and tilted his head to the side, attempting to plaster on a fake smile.

"Funny," he said sharply.

"I've gotten Carl his first set of golf clubs, too," Alan enthused. "I know he's a few years away from being able to use them, but I want him to learn something that's safe, because I'm telling you now, Rick, no grandson of mine is going to risk his life on a motorbike."

"But it's okay for your son-in-law to, isn't it," Rick heard himself retorting. Alan's face fell and his mouth became a hard, thin line.

Rick gave Carl a kiss on the forehead and walked away.

*

Rick rubbed his sweaty hands against his jacket as he heard the string quartet begin to play. He could hear a low murmur beginning from the guests. The honeysuckle hanging from the archway over the altar was making the air thick and fragrant, but Rick just felt unwell.

Beside him, Richard was patting his pocket constantly, and Rick knew he was making sure the ring was there. It was white-gold, to match the three-diamond engagement ring Rick had spent a small fortune on. He made a good living – an excellent living – but part of him resented spending money on rings when it could be put to better use for Carl's future.

"She here?" he asked his dad.

Richard looked around, and gave a nod.

"She's here, son. And looking a million bucks."

He elbowed Rick gently.

"Have a look, Rick. It's a sight you'll remember all your life."

Rick held his breath, making his heart thud even more than it already was. Lori was at the bottom of the white satin runner, holding a bouquet of pink roses. She was smiling at her father and linking her arm with his. Rick felt his nerves dissipate slightly – she looked so happy and radiant.

His attention was briefly diverted by two latecomers taking the last two chairs in the back row, right to the left of where Lori was waiting. The first thing Rick saw was a flash of bright purple. It was Michonne in a clinging halterneck dress and huge black designer sunglasses – and beside her was Daryl.

Rick audibly gasped, his mouth agape. He stared, attempting to catch Daryl's eye. Daryl was pulling at his collar, clearly not enthralled with the silver tie he was wearing. Rick willed him to look up, but Daryl turned to whisper something in Michonne's ear, which made Michonne reach across and squeeze his hand.

"Can't take your eyes off her, huh?" Richard joked, and Rick gave a wan smile.

Lori was walking up the aisle, rose petals at her feet. Her dress was every bit as ostentatious as Rick had expected, but her long hair was piled on top of her head in curled tendrils, and her lips were painted a pale pink. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about that.

Rick smelt her perfume as she finally stopped beside him, giving her father a small kiss on the cheek before turning to Rick and smiling brilliantly.

"Hello," she said sweetly.

Rick blinked away tears.

"Hi."

*

Rick said hello to the various guests as he waited for Lori and her bridesmaids to freshen their make-up before the wedding party went to get their photographs taken. Leaving the tent, he saw that the photographer was tapping his foot impatiently, and Rick apologised, telling him he was sure that Lori wouldn't be much longer.

Rick looked around anxiously to see if anyone needed anything, and noticed a figure in a plain black suit walking in the direction of the meadow at the back of the ranch, his head dipped low and his walk slightly pigeon-toed.

Rick made the decision to go after him in a split second, and soon he was right on Daryl's heels, calling his name as he followed. Daryl didn't stop walking until they were both at the top of the hill, surrounded by the summer wildflowers that they'd spent their teenage years lying in.

"You came," Rick said breathlessly.

Daryl whipped around.

"I did. An' don't _dare_ thank me for it, Grimes. Don't think I'm givin' ya my _blessin'_. This is the last fuckin' thing I ever do for ya, ya hear me?"

Daryl's tie was loose, his hair mussed up from the wind blowing across the meadow. He cupped his hand around his lighter as he attempted to light a cigarette in the breeze.

"I won't ask you for anything else ever again," Rick implored. "You've no idea how much it means..."

"Save it," Daryl snapped. "Ain't ya got a speech to prepare? Leave me alone with my smoke. Can't even come up here an' have a smoke without ya fuckin' followin' me an' pissin' me off."

He took a long drag, looking off into the distance. Rick wondered if he too was remembering all the days they had lain down in this very grass, completely alone and far enough away from the ranch house that no-one else would come up here. They'd kissed up here; discussed their dreams of winning Championships. It occurred to Rick that there had never been much said about the future when it came to _them_.

"You know what? YOU were the one who told me it was all over when Carl came along," Rick suddenly heard himself blurt out. "Don't act like you didn't have the chance to _have_ me. You did."

"The _hell_ I did," Daryl spat onto the ground. "What were ya gonna do? Fuck me in one room and change Carl in the other? Or stay with her an' still be with me at the same time? Yeah, 'cause livin' a lie would've done that fucked up head of yers a whole lot of good."

" _God_ , Daryl," Rick took a step backwards. Sometimes Daryl could really show his cruel side. Rick knew him well enough to know that that was Daryl's defence mechanism, but that didn't mean that his words couldn't cut deep.

Daryl instantly looked guilty, but in his usual way, he covered it up with more harsh words.

"Jus' fuck off back to yer wedding, must have spent enough millions on it. Ya made yer choice. Live with it."

*

"Red or white wine, sir?"

Daryl looked down at his plate of uneaten salmon, and wrinkled his nose.

"Can I get a whisky and Coke?"

"Of course, sir," the waiter gave a nod and left the table.

Daryl's stomach rumbled, and he wondered when they would be bringing out the cake. He hoped it was chocolate, but Lori seemed like more the vanilla type. He'd picked at the meal, the food too fancy for him, and he was exhausted from the conversations at their table. He'd been seated with Michonne and some of Rick's mechanics, but he still felt uncomfortable.

The booze loosened his tongue enough eventually to be able to make idle chit chat, mostly about racing. He was midway through having a good-natured argument about the best racetrack when he heard the clinking noise of someone tapping a knife against a glass. It was Lori's father beginning his speech.

Daryl quickly zoned out, having no interest in what the pompous-sounding man had to say about his daughter. He did notice enough to know that Rick was barely mentioned, and indeed Rick was sitting there, a blank expression on his face. He was staring straight ahead as if into space, and he wasn't blinking. People were laughing politely at the stupid jokes being made, with Lori gazing adoringly up at her father.

"He goes on any longer and we'll still be here at breakfast," Michonne whispered into his ear, and Daryl snorted.

Eventually, Lori's father raised his glass and toasted the bride and groom. Daryl gulped down champagne and felt his heart give a jump as Rick stood up to make his speech. He looked nervous; Daryl could always tell.

Rick cleared his throat, said a croaky _Good evening_ , then coughed. When he began speaking again, his voice was still hoarse. Daryl looked at the table, pressing his fingertip against the prongs of his fork. He could feel Michonne's eyes on him, but resolved not to look up.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," Rick began. "Thank you all for coming today." He stopped talking, and Daryl looked up to see Rick folding the paper his speech was written on, and putting it down onto the table.

"Those of you that know me well know that uh... speaking isn't really my thing, so bear with me," Rick went on. "I had my speech already written, but then I saw how many of you were here, so many loved ones, and it got me thinking about what it really means when two people love each other. It means wanting only the best for them, even if it means you sacrifice what _you_ want. It means accepting their faults and loving them even more for it. It means knowing them better than you know yourself. It means..."

Rick paused, his voice wavering. Daryl squeezed his eyes shut, mentally willing him to keep going. When Daryl opened them, Rick was looking directly at him. Daryl met his gaze, and gave a short nod. _Go on._

"It _means_ ," Rick eventually continued, his voice now strong and confident. "It means that you only feel like half a person when you're not with them. You feel empty. Broken."

Daryl looked away, then back at Rick, who was still staring at him.

"I'm lucky that I found my other half."

*

The reception was in full swing, with couples up dancing to the band, and folks mingling at the various tables. Lori was giggling with her bridesmaids, and Rick was talking to Hershel, his hand gripped around a bottle of beer.

Daryl nodded his head towards the bar, where Richard was ordering Michonne a vodka.

"What's the deal with that?" he asked. "You an' him."

Daryl was surprised to see Michonne almost blush. She looked down at the tablecloth coyly and folded her napkin over several times rather than meet his eyes.

"Racing's a lonely existence sometimes, you know that," she explained. "Going from airport to hotel and back again. We got to know one another pretty well, and he's kind, and handsome, and – I like him. A lot... You surprised?"

Daryl pursed his lips, thinking.

"Naw. Well, maybe a bit. Guess he's always seemed kinda... "

"What?" Michonne demanded.

" _Old_ ," Daryl whispered.

Michonne giggled.

"He's 53. I mean, I know to a 25 year old _child_ like you, that's ancient, but 13 years between he and I is nothing. He's a good man." She paused. "Like his son is. Even if right now, it doesn't seem it."

Daryl sat back in his chair.

"How are you holding up?" Michonne glanced over at Richard, but he was deep in conversation with Rick and Hershel.

Daryl took a deep breath.

"About as well as I normally do when I have ta be around this many people," he replied. "Think that's maybe worse than Rick gettin' married. This ain't my thing."

"Really?" Michonne asked in faux-surprise. "Because you seem so _comfortable_ , I'm just waiting for you to get up and dance. Or make a speech. Or try to catch the bouquet?"

Daryl huffed a laugh, shaking his head at the concerned look that came over Michonne's face.

"I'm okay, 'Chonne. It's a fuckin' pisser of a situation but I ain't goin' ta be cryin' myself ta sleep for the rest of my days, if that's what yer worried about. Once I'm out of this suit an' back home on my couch, I'll be jus' fine."

"I know you will," Michonne nodded, placing a hand on his forearm. Behind her, the band started playing some romantic slow song. She made a face. "I'm glad Richard's not one for dancing, or he'd be dragging me onto the dancefloor for this."

"It's cool you're with him," Daryl mused. "He deserves someone. So do you."

Michonne opened her mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it.

"What?" Daryl asked.

"This thing with him. I think it could _be_ something – and... "

Daryl held his hands out.

"Jus' fuckin' say what ya want ta," he implored.

She bit her lip.

"Look, if this goes somewhere with Richard, I wouldn't want to be keeping anything from him that might complicate things between us. Things that I _know_. You know I'm an honest person, but I'm loyal too, and I'd never betray your trust Daryl – but certain things I know about his son are a big burden to bear if things become more serious with him."

Daryl swilled around the whisky and Coke in his glass before downing it. He understood what she was trying to say.

"You don't need ta worry about any of that," he said matter-of-factly. "Rick's married now. There ain't nothin' to tell, not anymore. Not now. Not ever."

"I wish things were different for you," Michonne implored, covering Daryl's hand with hers.

"Life ain't ever gonna go any differently fer me," Daryl shrugged. "Used ta it."

They both stopped talking abruptly as Richard appeared with drinks, sitting down beside Daryl. Michonne got up to go to the ladies room, and Richard turned to Daryl, cocking his head towards where Lori was standing.

"What do you think of her? Always respected your opinion on things, Daryl. Especially when they concern my boy."

"Don't know her."

Daryl sniffed, sucking his cheeks in and looking anywhere but where Lori was.

"Tell me the truth." Richard's eyes were narrowed, so much like Rick's that it pained Daryl to see them.

"Think she just likes riders," he eventually mused. "Don't matter which one."

"Yep, was worried you'd say words to that effect." Richard frowned, and he shook his head.

"Man, like I said, I don't know her," Daryl said hurriedly. "Jus' wonder if she'd still want Rick if he was working in a fast food restaurant or somethin', is all."

Richard nodded solemnly.

"Can't say it's not crossed my mind too on occasion. But if she makes Rick happy..."

"'M sure she does." Daryl poked at a ragnail.

"All I want, all I ever wanted, is for Rick to be happy," Richard said pensively. He nudged Daryl. "And you. I'd like to see you settled down too."

"Pfft," Daryl began to blush. "Jus' want ta keep winnin'. Don't need much more else."

"About that," Richard began, looking around as if he was checking they were alone. "Hate to talk about work when we're at a wedding – but tell me, is Shane Walsh becoming a problem?"

"Ain't a problem fer me," Daryl shrugged. "Could beat him even with one hand tied behind my back." He paused, chewing the side of his cheek. "But if he keeps on makin' the kind of crazy moves that ain't ever gonna work like he is, then yeah, he's gonna get hurt. Or worse, get someone else hurt."

"Like you. Or my son," Richard grimaced.

"Naw, we'll both always be too fast for him," Daryl replied. "Promise. He ain't worth wastin' yer time thinkin' about."

*

Guests were beginning to leave; tired and drunk and danced-out. Rick had never been a fan of big parties or events like this, preferring to sit quietly chatting with a beer in his hand. For the first time since he'd said his vows, he was having a quiet moment outside of the tent, listening to the noise of happy chatter and the wedding band who were playing some of his dad's favourite 1960s songs. Lori was dancing with some girlfriends, revelling in all the attention. The two of them had barely gotten a second to themselves all day, and Rick was missing Carl, who had long been put to bed.

"Good day?" a calm voice behind him asked.

Michonne placed a hand on his arm and smiled somewhat sympathetically.

"It's not really for guys, all of this, right?" she asked.

"Nope," Rick agreed. "This is all for Lori. But as long as she's happy..."

Michonne sipped her drink, Daryl's name hanging heavy and unspoken in the air.

"Did you convince him to come?" Rick eventually asked. "If you did, thank you."

"I didn't," Michonne replied, somewhat coldly. "I didn't think it was a good idea. I still don't."

Rick's face reddened with embarrassment.

"Sorry if that sounds harsh," Michonne continued, her expression softening. "I was worried it'd be tough for him. But there's too much good in him to _not_ be here, not that he'd ever believe that. It was _his_ choice to come."

"Thank you," Rick said.

"For what?"

"Always having his back. And mine, too. You've always kept everything you know to yourself and I've never thanked you properly for it."

Michonne squeezed his arm.

"He's had enough shit in his life, I like to make sure he's okay."

Rick cleared his throat and glanced inside the tent to make sure Lori was still distracted.

"Any idea where he is?"

"Said he was going for a piss about ten minutes ago. Haven't seen him since."

Rick kissed Michonne on the cheek and walked towards the ranch. At the garage, he walked up the stairs to the room above – Daryl's old room. Rick stayed away from it normally, the memories too painful. The last time he had ventured up there, it had smelt musty and everything had been covered in dust. A couple of old magazines and a pillow that still had the imprint of a head on it were the only evidence that anyone had ever lived there.

Daryl was lying on the bed, arm behind his head. He was silent as Rick stared at him.

"Thought you might be up here," Rick said, a tremble in his voice.

"Had enough of all those people. Knew no-one would come up here." Daryl stood up. "Anyway, guess I'd better be gettin' back."

"Stay a couple of minutes?" Rick begged. "Please."

Daryl glared at him indignantly.

"Ya really askin' me to somethin' _else_ for ya?"

He sighed and glanced around the room.

"Had some times in here, huh."

"Yeah, we did. Lori wants to turn it into a home gym," Rick confessed, seeing Daryl's wry smirk. "Guess it's not a bad idea, be somewhere closer to train at least."

"No point keepin' it like this, I s'pose," Daryl agreed, leaning against the wall.

Rick looked him up and down – Daryl's collar was crooked and his tie had been loosened around the neck so much that it was now a tight knot. His cheeks were flushed from alcohol and his hair hung stringily over his eyes. Daryl's shoulders looked even wider than usual in his black suit; ravishing.

"Oh Daryl..." Rick sighed.

"Don't," Daryl's voice was hoarse. "Don't, Rick. Mean it. Whatever yer gonna say, stop."

Rick wasn't even _sure_ what he was going to say, he just knew that he'd never wanted to press his lips to Daryl's damp neck more. He swallowed, rubbing his right temple and suddenly realising that his head was throbbing. He ran a hand down his face, shaking his head.

"How did I end up here?" he asked, a pleading, desperate tone in his voice.

Daryl dipped his head down as he replied, so much so that Rick could barely hear him.

"Saw how you grew up. How much you and your Daddy missed your Mom. This was always the life you wanted, Rick. Not half-assing it with someone like me. You ain't that complicated."

"It's not that this was the life I always wanted, like you say it is," Rick replied, shrugging his shoulders weakly. "It's just that – you dealt with losing your mom so young by not needing anybody. But me? I dealt with it by needing _everybody_."

"Sounds fuckin' claustrophobic," Daryl said grimly.

Rick didn't reply, but he reached out to brush his hand against Daryl's, noticing how Daryl visibly flinched.

"I'm amazed you came," Rick eventually croaked.

"Wasn't going to."

"Then why did you?"

Daryl looked down shyly.

"'Cause sometimes you need a shoulder to lean against. Felt like today might have been one of them times."

"It was. Thank you."

Daryl's lips parted as if he was going to speak, but then he seemed to think better of it; instead just cupping the side of Rick's face and brushing a thumb across his jawline. Rick squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a sense of panic in his chest. He grabbed Daryl's wrist and pressed a quick kiss against Daryl's palm.

"You got this," Daryl nodded, gently pulling his hand away.

Rick stifled a sob and grabbed Daryl's hand once more, giving it three quick kisses in succession.

"This is it, then," he whispered.

"Yup," Daryl replied. "That's it. Do good, Grimes."

Rick wiped his eyes with the back of his hand as he turned away.

"Hey," Daryl called as Rick made to walk back down the stairs. He turned to see Daryl's mouth twitching with mischief.

"What is it, Dixon?"

Daryl sucked his cheeks in and then broke into a grin.

"Did you know your dad's boning Michonne?"

*

**Two months later**

Rick knew that the cameramen were following him as he stormed into the Sanctuary garage, where Shane was taking off his helmet after the season finale in Atlanta. Behind him, one of his own PR girls was begging him to come back to the Team Greene garage.

"Get off me," Rick growled, shrugging her away.

Shane's mechanics grabbed onto Rick's arms and shoulders in an attempt to stop him following Shane to the back of the garage, where the cameras couldn't follow, but the adrenalin flowing through Rick was enough for him to escape their grasps.

Shane backed away, helmet in hand, until he was pressed against a wall of tyres with nowhere to go.

"Now let's just sort this out like men," a voice drawled.

"Fuck off, Negan," Rick said with a derisive wave of his hand as Negan tried to come between he and Shane. "Let your bitch fight his own battles."

Negan's tongue darted out to lick his lips. He grinned as he walked away.

"The hell you call me, Grimes?" Shane sneered.

"You heard." Rick made to raise his fist, knowing that he could easily break Shane's nose, or knock out several of his teeth. He shook his head slowly. "Nah, already fucked up one hand this year, not going to fuck up the other one on the likes of you."

"'Cause you know I'd knock you on your ass if you tried," Shane replied.

"You already did that on track, Shane. What the hell were you playing at? You know that that wasn't a spot where you can overtake. You cost me a third place today."

"You fell off..."

"Because of you, you fucking prick!" Rick's mouth was dry and his hands were shaking with anger. Today had been the closest he had gotten to getting onto the podium since he had come back to racing, and Shane had completely ruined it. "You're going to kill someone, you know that?"

"Don't take it out on me 'cause you've not done shit since you came back," Shane spat. "Maybe if you rode like I did, you'd not be fucking around at the back like a loser."

"Loser, huh?" Rick tilted his head. "Oh I know what this is about."

"You do?"

"Yeah," Rick took a step back, glaring at Shane's smug, handsome face. "Can't stand it that you let Lori get away, can you. Can't stand that I got something that you didn't – _her_."

"She ain't got anything to do with... "

"SHUT UP," Rick raged. "One more asshole move on track to me, or anyone else, and I swear – the marshals will be shovelling bits of you off the asphalt after what I do to you."

Shane's eyes widened and for a second Rick thought he saw a flicker of fear.

"Jesus, Rick," Shane breathed. "When did you get so _angry_?"

*

**TEAM GREENE PRESS RELEASE**

**Sunday October 29th, 2000**

_**Team Greene would like to announce that following today's race in Atlanta, it intends to lodge a complaint with the race stewards against Sanctuary rider Shane Walsh.** _

_**Team Greene believes that Walsh is guilty of unsporting behaviour, given the lap 15 clash between he and Team Greene rider Rick Grimes. Walsh attempted an impossible overtake which bumped Grimes wide; ultimately causing him to fall and lose an almost certain podium place.** _

_**Given that this is not the first occasion over the past few seasons where Walsh and his team have made a questionable move during a race, Team Greene feels it has no option but to pursue a formal protest.** _

_**Rick Grimes would like to offer his apologies to his many fans for his unprofessional behavior following the incident, but remains disgusted at Walsh's actions. Grimes will not be making any further comments on the matter, and is firmly focused on beginning his training regime for the 2001 season.** _

_**Team Greene would also like to take this opportunity to congratulate Katana's Daryl Dixon on becoming the 2000 US Superbike Champion.** _

Michonne finished reading out the email and sat back.

"Well well well," she drawled.

"About fuckin' time too," Daryl commented through mouthfuls of cheeseburger. He swallowed. "Rick okay after his fall?"

"He's alright."

"No harm to his hand?"

"None," Michonne reassured him, getting up to go to the fridge and get them both a beer. "We could have gone out tonight to celebrate your Championship you know. Burger and fries doesn't seem like much of a party."

"Jus' ready to be back at the cabin for a few months before I start travellin' again," Daryl replied, stretching his arms above his head and burping loudly.

Felt pretty sweet, winning his third Championship - especially considering this one had been between he and Shane. Rick had shaken his hand before the race; gripped it real tight too. Daryl had asked how married life was treating him, and Rick had said _fine, all good_.

Lori and the kid had come along to every race since Rick had come back, and in a way Daryl was glad. It took away opportunity and temptation. Daryl mostly saw Lori sitting under an umbrella at races, sipping mineral water or champagne, with Carl's buggy by her side. He never saw her smile.

"You should have some fun during the off-season for once," Michonne stated, snapping Daryl from his thoughts. "Go on a trip, maybe."

"Oh yeah? Where to?"

Michonne shrugged.

"I don't know... Costa Rica or somewhere."

Daryl laughed in disbelief.

"Costa Rica? Might as well suggest I go to fuckin' Mars. Don' even know where that is."

Michonne clinked her beer bottle against his. Daryl took a long swig.

"So you're just going to mooch around the cabin for the next four months, is that it?" she asked.

"Nope," Daryl replied. "Gonna buy more bikes, fix 'em up, see if I can't find Merle's old Triumph this year, got a good feelin' it's out there somewhere jus' waitin' fer me." He paused. "...Why? What ya up to?"

"Have you spoken much to the new mechanic?" Michonne asked, a playful tone in her voice. "Guy named Caesar? He started three races ago, nice guy. Quiet, but nice."

"Think I told him to adjust my tyre pressures once." Daryl turned his attention to his fries, pretending to ignore how Michonne's eyes were full of hopeful mischief.

"I think he might be gay, you know."

"Don't care," Daryl plunged a fry into a gloop of ketchup. "What – ya think if he is, me an' him would just become... you know... 'cause it don't work like that..."

"That's not what I mean," Michonne stole a fry. "I just think that with Rick being married now..."

"Nope," Daryl said firmly. "An' stop stealin' my fuckin' food."

Daryl's mobile beeped, and he lifted it to have a look. A text from Rick.

_Congratulations Daryl._

He pressed delete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo - Rick went ahead and did it. Thoughts on this one?
> 
> More Wild Cards in 2019 - hopefully in a couple of weeks. Spoiler: the next chapter will be set after a 2 year time jump.
> 
> All I have left to say is thank you for all the hits, kudos and comments so far. Whatever you celebrate, have a happy and peaceful holiday season.


	17. 17.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jesus, two years had passed already. Two years of brief hellos and nods to one another at races; of nothing more than the odd congratulatory text message or one-line email. And Daryl was fine with it. Had hurt like hell at the very beginning, no doubt about it. But he had racing, and his bikes, and his cabin. Rick wasn't his, never had been, really. This was always the way Rick's life was going to go. Daryl's life was going better than it had ever been destined to, and so he was happy with his lot. Wanting anything more than what he had was just asking for it all to fall apart, as far as he was concerned._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amazingly, I am posting a new chapter quite soon after the last one. Time off work at Christmas is to thank for that.
> 
> I guess this chapter could be seen as a bit of breather. However – this one is VERY much a stepping stone to the second half of the fic, and lays a lot of foundations for what is about to come. I said to someone in a comment on one of the other chapters – there is very little said or done in this fic that isn't there for a reason.
> 
> I have to shuffle the next 3 chapters around a little to get to a specific (and rather huge!) point in the fic that I've had planned from the very beginning, which may mean having 30 chapters instead of 31. So it might take me a little while until the next chapter but I hope it will be worth it!
> 
> (Also, I wrote one of the parts of this fic while very drunk. You'll probably guess which one, ahem.)
> 
> Below is the race calendar for the Championship, which maybe I should have posted before. Hey ho.  
> Woodbury Raceway, Georgia  
> Alexandria Park, Virginia  
> Seattle  
> San Francisco  
> Los Angeles  
> Detroit  
> Memphis  
> Indianapolis  
> New Orleans  
> Houston  
> Savannah  
> Atlanta
> 
> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/  
> I also post updates there about posting times and how far behind I am!

**2 years later**

Someone had left the glossy celebrity magazine lying on a table in the airport departure lounge. Daryl's eyes kept drifting towards it, until eventually he had to sit on his hands so that he didn't reach out to pick it up. The cover had only some names he recognised – Britney Spears and that dude who was in the new Spider-Man movie, but the main cover photo was of Rick and Lori Grimes.

Rick's handsome face beamed out from the magazine cover, his arm around Lori's shoulder. He was dressed in a pressed sky-blue shirt and beige pants, and he looked like a preppy asshole. Daryl rolled his eyes in derision, finally snatching the magazine up and glaring at Lori's beady brown eyes and simpering smile as she looked lovingly up towards her husband.

Daryl flicked through to the ten-page shoot and interview. More photos of Rick and Lori at the ranch, showing off their new gym, home cinema, and outdoor pool and hot tub. It was all Lori, Daryl knew that. Rick would never have wanted to change the house from the home he had been raised in. Rick wore the same fixed smile in all of the photographs, and Daryl stared at his eyes, as if trying to read what he was really thinking. They'd dressed him in the worst clothes Daryl had ever seen, and certainly ones Rick would never choose himself – pale pink polo shirts, Pringle golf jumpers draped around his shoulders. He was dressed like Lori's fucking dad. Daryl suppressed a laugh, thinking about what Merle would have said about it all.

Daryl couldn't stop himself from skimming through the article. It was frothy and trivial, and Daryl wondered how long it had taken for Lori to convince Rick to take part.

_On the eve of their second wedding anniversary, we spend time at the beautiful ranch home of US Superbike rider Rick Grimes and his wife Lori._

Jesus, two years had passed already. Two years of brief hellos and nods to one another at races; of nothing more than the odd congratulatory text message or one-line email. And Daryl was fine with it. Had hurt like hell at the very beginning, no doubt about it. But he had racing, and his bikes, and his cabin. Rick wasn't his, never had been, really. This was always the way Rick's life was going to go. Daryl's life was going better than it had ever been destined to, and so he was happy with his lot. Wanting anything more than what he had was just asking for it all to fall apart, as far as he was concerned. A racing career, a warm bed and a full belly was all he required. Sure, his vice was buying up vintage bikes – probably too many, but making them go again in the garage at his home made him happy.

He turned the page to see more photos of the ranch, and one with Lori holding the kid. Little Sprocket was turning into a bruiser; and man, he looked like his daddy already.

_**So Rick, any plans for the Grimes racing dynasty to continue? Your father won Championships, you've already won two, and are in the lead of the current season. Surely you would like to see Carl continue that legacy?** _

**__** _Whatever Carl wants to be, I am happy with. The main thing is that he's safe, and I know that racing isn't – so of course, if he wants to do something else, I will support him all the way._

_**Lori, do you feel the same?** _

**__** _I'd rather he didn't race. It would be very hard to watch him do something so fast and dangerous. I'd rather he took over my daddy's business, or played golf or something._

_**You must feel very proud to have such a wonderful home and family.** _

**__** _Lori: Oh yes, life is amazing and every day I feel thankful. I am so blessed that I have had two years of married life with such a kind, generous man._

_Rick: Yes, we're very happy._

Daryl couldn't read any further. He didn't need to read it all in black and white, it had already all become final the second Rick had said _I do_. He threw the magazine down onto the empty seat beside him, noticing the two teenage girls opposite him whispering and giggling. He wasn't sure if it was because they recognised him, or because they were laughing at him reading such crap.

Married life must be suiting Grimes, because he was ahead in the Championship and riding well, as well as Daryl had ever seen. They stood on the podium together at almost every race, with little more contact than a cursory handshake, and Daryl missed the camaraderie more than anything else. The good natured bickering and ability to communicate through nods and looks – well, he couldn't pretend that he didn't wish he could have that back again, if nothing else.

*

"Rick, tell your son he can't have any more chocolate."

"No more chocolate, Carl," Rick ordered, not bothering to look up. He was kneeling on his and Lori's bedroom floor, zipping up his Team Greene holdall and trying not to step on any of the toys that were littered across the pale pink carpet.

Lori slammed her suitcase shut and put her hands on her hips.

"You know, you could sound a bit more forceful, Rick," she complained.

Rick sighed and looked up at her, irritated.

"Well I wasn't the one that gave him the fu... it wasn't me that gave him the chocolate in the first place, okay?"

Lori's cheeks reddened.

"So you're blaming my Mom because it was _her_ , is that it?"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"Oh, so now you're telling me what I _mean_." She tutted, striding out of the bedroom and slamming the door as she did so.

Rick sucked in his cheeks, bending down to pick up Carl, who was smearing melted m&ms across the magnolia paint of he and Lori's bedroom.

"No more," he told the boy, happy to take Carl into the bathroom to wash off the chocolate, and leave Lori to deal with whatever had put her in a bad mood this time.

He didn't want to argue with her on their second wedding anniversary, but they seemed to argue every other day lately, so what did it matter? Yesterday, they had bickered because he hadn't noticed that she'd had all of two inches cut off her hair, and today it was Carl and the chocolate, and the fact that they couldn't go on an anniversary trip because he had to be in Houston for a race. He'd done some ridiculous magazine shoot and interview just so she could impress her shallow, vapid friends, and yet she was still bawling his ass out on shit that didn't matter. He'd never felt so humiliated as he had the day the magazine people came, having to play happy families as they put make-up on him and dressed him in the kind of clothes that he would have laughed at if he had seen them on anyone else.

They had been asked questions about their marriage; questions that Rick really hadn't been comfortable answering. Why the hell was it anyone's business apart from his and Lori's? He was baffled as to why anyone would even be the slightest bit interested anyway, and he couldn't stop himself from imagining how Daryl would be howling with laughter if Rick had been able to tell him all about it. He could almost hear the snorts and sarcastic comments. He ached to hear them, because he knew that every single one would be the truth.

The second the reporter and photographer had left that day, he and Lori had argued over Carl. _You don't want Carl to race because it's dangerous, but you have no problem with me doing it?_ Rick had spat. Lori had replied _That's different and you know it. A son isn't a husband._

Rick had been too weary to keep going back and forth with her, and he'd slept on the sofa that night. He had felt fake and tacky for portraying his and Lori's marriage as anything other than what it was to the magazine – a mess.

*

Two days later, Rick was on the penultimate lap of the Houston race; Daryl only a few seconds behind him, when he saw the marshals frantically waving black flags. That meant that a rider was being told to leave the racetrack immediately. At the next marshal stop, Rick saw another flag being waved – one that had the number two on it. Shane's number.

Rick re-focused on the track in front of him rather than on the marshals, knowing that Daryl would be ready to pounce at any second, should Rick become distracted by whatever was going on. He counted one, two, three corners. Sweeping bends and tight hairpins. Ten, eleven, twelve. Then he crossed the line, and had won again.

On the podium, he stood beside Daryl, as he had countless times before. They did the obligatory handshakes and champagne sprays in front of the cheering crowds, before going their separate ways. Rick hadn't had a one to one conversation with Daryl since their stolen moments at his wedding two years ago, and he was at the point where he wouldn't even know what to say to him if he got the chance anyway. Daryl was _gone_ ; out of Rick's orbit and seemingly enjoying a life away from him. Rick missed _everything_ – even the smallest things that he'd never thought about before, like the scent of Daryl's threadbare flannel shirts, the gnarled coffee table in the cabin that Rick always rested his feet on, the little contented moans Daryl made as he was just about to fall asleep. Jesus, Rick would give anything to be in that cabin, waiting for Daryl to come inside from his garage while Rick made them endless pots of coffee; would die to hear the flick of Daryl's lighter as he enjoyed his post-coital smoke.

Back in the garage, Lori put Carl into Rick's arms, and sat down to touch up her coral lipstick and powder her nose with her compact. She was wearing a clingy white vest top and short floral skirt.

"Thought that race was never going to end," she remarked, crossing her long tanned legs.

"Um _yeah_... was pretty damn long for me too," Rick retorted, gratefully handing Carl to his PR girl and accepting a bottle of water, which he gulped down. He noticed Lori's disapproving look as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He bent down to kiss her, noticing that she almost flinched away.

"You're all smelly and sweaty," she explained. Rick gave her a peck on the lips and immediately pulled away.

"Hey, what happened with Shane?" he asked, looking over to his chief mechanic, who made to reply, but Lori butted in.

"He was disqualified," she said. "Kicked his leg out at someone, tried to make them fall off."

Rick gave a dry smile.

"Didn't think you paid so much attention."

"I _pay_ attention," Lori snapped. "It was a pretty big deal, they're talking about a race ban for Shane."

"Not before time," Rick stated. "I'm glad."

Hershel appeared, shaking Rick's hand.

"Another job well done, Rick," he said, understated as ever. "I just got word that Shane has been banned from the next race. He almost kicked that young Noah Tyler kid off his bike, I've never seen anything so shameful in all my years of racing."

Rick shook his head.

"I hope it knocks some sense into him, it's been years since someone was banned from a race."

"Do you think it will?" Hershel raised an eyebrow.

"No. No I don't," Rick confessed. "But at least we can go to Savannah knowing that all of us are a hell of a lot safer."

He glanced over at Lori, who was tapping on her mobile.

 _Nice that she's so concerned_ , Rick thought bitterly.

*

"Congratulations, honey," Lori cooed down the line.

In his Savannah hotel room alone, Rick smiled. Lori hadn't come to the race this weekend, the first one she had missed since before Carl had come along. Rick had obliterated the competition for the second race in a row, even Daryl. He couldn't stop himself from wondering whether it was because he'd been able to think only about racing rather than the distraction of he and Lori's bickering.

"So you watched it?" Rick asked.

There was a moment of silence.

"You didn't?" Rick said. "It's okay, Lori. I don't expect you to..."

"I was busy with Carl," Lori said hurriedly. "You know he's had that rash since you bought the wrong bubble bath for him."

"For the last time, it wasn't the fucking bubble bath, Lori," Rick rubbed his forehead. "It was..."

"I've asked you not to use that tone with me, Rick," Lori snapped. "Or swear."

"Sorry. I'm tired."

"I know," Lori's voice softened. "By the way, I told my parents we'd go to their house for dinner tomorrow evening."

Rick shut his eyes in exasperation and sat down onto the edge of the bed.

"You know my flight doesn't land until five tomorrow night."

"Yes, I know. And mom and dad don't expect us until half six, so..."

" _Lori_ ," Rick groaned. "You know traffic will be a nightmare at that time. And I'll be exhausted. You _know_ that."

"Fine!" Lori exclaimed. "Don't come, then. I'll tell my mom, who's bought you prime rib by the way, that you don't want to go."

"I didn't say I didn't want to go, I just mean -"

Lori hung up. Rick threw his phone onto the bed and lay back, sighing heavily. The constant sniping at each other was exhausting. No matter what he said or did, Lori would find some way to use it against him, or become annoyed for no reason.

He felt like he irritated her. She always accused him of not talking enough; of being too much of a closed book. Rick knew that she was right – but how could he talk about his thoughts and feelings when a huge chunk of his life was Daryl.

He discarded his clothes in a temper, grabbing his towel and shower gel from his bag. His body had that usual post-race ache, and as he switched on the water and let the bathroom steam up, he thought about how he and Daryl had always found their own unique way to stretch out sore, tired muscles. As he soaped himself, he remembered pushing Daryl's thighs apart, or a tongue licking across his shoulder blades. He remembered that coming in Daryl's mouth had sometimes been the only thing that could shake out the tension in his body and make his limbs supple again.

He rinsed himself off, standing letting the hot water pelt down onto his face and chest. His memories had made his cock rise, hard against his trim stomach and neglected of late – both by Lori and his own hand. They were always too tired, or too busy. More often that not, Rick found himself on the treadmill in the new home gym that had once been Daryl's room above the garage, pounding the miles and working off any frustration he felt. As a result, he was in the best shape of his life, but he wasn't sure if it was a worthy trade-off.

He barely got a second to himself at home. Even in the bathroom, there was always someone rushing him, or Lori calling him, or Carl knocking the door with his little fists. Now, with Lori not with him for the race weekend, he had a rare moment of solitude in this luxurious hotel shower.

He reached down, smoothing a fingertip up the length of his own cock. He wasn't going to last long if he did this, but he was going to take his time for as long as he could stand it and enjoy it.

Rick tipped his head back, wet curls plastered against his forehead – curls that Lori wanted him to crop short, but for the moment he had held out – and gave a slight moan at the pleasurable sensation of water beating down onto him, and the mint scent of his shower gel. The shower door was completely steamed up, and the black subway tiles of the interior were slippery with dripping beads of water.

Cock now in hand, Rick allowed himself a small moan as he began to touch himself. He closed his eyes and thought of freckled collarbones; of thin lips parting in ecstasy; of pale thighs gripped tight around his waist.

He started jerking himself off slowly, moving his hand up and down and gently squeezing the head of his cock. Christ, it felt good. His balls hung heavily between his legs, feeling swollen as Rick gave them a tug. He gasped, placing a hand against the tiles to hold himself steady as he rubbed his dick, looking down with awe at how hard and purple it was. And Daryl, Daryl was somewhere in this hotel, somewhere close by. Rick wondered if he was in bed; sleeping maybe, or jerking off too, his big, calloused hands giving himself pleasure. Maybe he was thinking about Rick, the way Rick used to fuck him; the time Rick had made him come without even laying a finger on his cock.

Rick's body gave a shudder and he began to fuck into his own enclosed fist, his hips thrusting and buttocks clenching. The water continued to pour down on him, the noise of the shower loud enough to drown out any noises Rick was making.

_"Daryl. Fuck, Daryl. I'm so fucking hard. Yeah like that, squeeze my cock, nice and tight."_

An imaginary Daryl was backing up against Rick's dick, and Rick sank his teeth into his own forearm, imagining it was Daryl's muscled shoulder.

Rick's hand was frenzied now as he stroked his erection. His breathing was ragged and his voice strangled as he spoke to the phantom Daryl in front of him.

_"Oh God, fuck, I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come, let me come in you, Daryl. Let me fuck into you until I fucking come inside you and -"_

Rick cried out as he came in torrents. It spurted against the tiles and spilled onto his lower stomach and the tops of his thighs. His eyes were closed as he reached down with a finger, swiping a globule of come from his body and licking it from his hand. Later, he'd feel embarrassed and ashamed, but right now, it was Daryl's come he told himself he was tasting, Daryl's hand squeezing the last drops from his dripping cock, Daryl cradling him as he sank to the floor of the shower, his body slick with semen and his voice coming out in sobs as he cried out Daryl's name.

*

Daryl sat up in the unfamiliar bed and pulled on a black vest. It was still dark outside, and he was glad. Plenty of time to ride back home before it was daylight.

"Let me guess – you're not staying," the voice beside him said.

Daryl turned his head, raising an eyebrow. On the nightstand was an opened box of condoms and an empty bottle of whisky. The body lying beside him was lean, olive-skinned, naked. It wasn't Rick Grimes, and this wasn't the pine-scented comfort of Daryl's cabin.

"Things ta do," Daryl snapped. "Back racin' in a couple days." He bent down to tie his shoelaces.

"Hmm. Racing's always the excuse," came the reply.

"'S important," Daryl grumbled. "Grimes is ahead of us an' there's only one race left."

"He is. But we can't do anything about him right now."

Caesar Martinez patted the edge of his bed, and beckoned Daryl to lie back down. He lifted the sheet up, showing off his nakedness. Daryl rolled his eyes.

"C'mon. Give me five more minutes," Caesar smirked. "Although, come to think of it, when have you ever lasted _only_ five minutes, Mr Staying Power."

"Shut up," Daryl shoved his mobile into his back pocket and fished around on the floor for his keys. "Get some sleep, don't want ya makin' a fuck up on my bike cause yer too tired."

Caesar laughed and settled back against the pillows.

"Okay, okay. See you at the track."

Daryl didn't respond, just left the room and was soon walking towards where his bike was parked.

He rode home quickly, the night still warm and sticky after a scorching hot September day. His thighs and shoulders ached a little from a day spent in bed with Caesar. The guy was alright – a bit full of himself, but he was good at keeping his mouth shut about them. He didn't need the other mechanics finding out about his sexuality, so it suited the both of them to meet in private. Only happened once every couple of months anyway, when Daryl craved it so much that he couldn't stop himself. Caesar would have him in his bed permanently, Daryl knew that, but Caesar also knew that he would never get Daryl Dixon to settle down in a million years.

Soon, Daryl was out of the city and speeding along the deserted country roads up to his cabin. The last race of the year was in a couple of days, and he needed Caesar to have a clear mind. The guy was a great mechanic, maybe the best in the entire sport. He was always the one to work late, to suggest trying new things – until one evening when 11pm had passed and he and Daryl were still working, he'd raised an eyebrow and mentioned _trying new things_.

Since then, Caesar had only ever been a phone call away when Daryl wanted him. Wasn't fair on the guy, Daryl knew that, but it felt kind of good to be the one dictating things for once.

*

_"Rick Grimes winnnnnnnnnnnnns the 2002 Atlanta US Superbike race! Yes there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, Rick Grimes takes his third US Superbike Championship. Once again it was extremely close between Grimes and Dixon, and all I can say is take a good look, folks. What we're all witnessing between these two magnificent riders will go down in history, they're not going to be racing forever and we need to appreciate these moments while we can. And look, there's Dixon slowing down on track to reach out and shake Grimes' hand. Now we know that they aren't close anymore but isn't that a fantastic display of sportsmanship... "_

Rick could have sworn that there were tears in Hershel's eyes as he embraced him back in the garage after the race. Hershel gripped onto Rick's shoulders as he took a step back, looking Rick up and down with pride.

"Your third US Superbike Championship, son. More than even some of the greats ever won, you know that? You and Daryl both have three each, that's the two of you dominating an entire sport over the past six years. You should be very, very proud – and so should he, for that matter. Never seen anything like it, the rivalry between you and him."

"It's special, alright," Rick nodded. "The Black Cat and the Python, right?" As Rick spoke their nicknames out loud, he was suddenly overwhelmed by the wave of melancholy that washed over him. He was going to be 30 in three years, and all of a sudden he was thinking about what life after racing would look like. Motorcycles were hard on a body, and the further into his late 20s he got, the harder it was to shake the aches and pains after a race. Used to be he would bounce off a bike like a rubber ball and have no qualms about getting back on again, but Carl was starting to flash into his mind now during races, when before, the only thing he had thought about was the next corner.

The noise of champage corks popping were right behind Rick's ear, and he accepted a glass from his dad.

"Lori's in the motorhome making a phone call," he explained. "But anyway, here's to a season with no injuries this time," Richard said, clinking his glass against Rick's.

"Amen," Rick agreed. "Shane behaved himself after his ban, I see."

"He did," Richard nodded, his eyes lighting up as he watched Michonne enter the Team Greene garage. "Kept his nose clean and came in eighth. Heard some talk that Sanctuary are going to be trying to poach folks from other teams, see if they can't start getting some better results."

Rick looked around his garage at the mechanics and crew who were jumping up and down and singing along to _We Are the Champions_.

"I'd like to see them try to steal any of these guys from me," he laughed, turning around to see Michonne accepting a glass of champagne. Rick momentarily shut his eyes as she kissed his dad briefly, before turning to him with a smile.

"Congratulations. _Again_ ," she teased. "It was an excellent fight this year between you and Daryl. You deserve it – but he'll get you next season."

"I'm sure he will," Rick nodded. His eyes flicked to Michonne's and she gave a tiny nod. _He's okay_ , it seemed to say.

*

"This your way of dealing with losing the Championship?" Caesar drawled, arching his back against the pillows as Daryl crawled up his body. "Calling me and wanting to come over?"

"Shut up," Daryl replied. That was all he ever seemed to say to the verbose mechanic. _Shut up. Just shut yer fuckin' mouth._

"Does it hurt?" Caesar asked, reaching down to unzip Daryl's jeans and tug them down.

"What?"

"Losing to him."

"Don't matter who I lose to," Daryl snapped. "Losin' is losin'. It feels shit whether it's Grimes or anyone else."

Caesar pressed his mouth to Daryl's navel.

"I'll make you feel better, Daryl Dixon."

He took Daryl's dick in his mouth, and Daryl gasped. Caesar was good, no doubt about it. An expert with his tongue; a tongue that had never been close to Daryl's mouth, because Daryl point black refused to kiss him.

After he came, he rolled onto his back and lit up a cigarette; Caesar beside him, running his hand up and down Daryl's stomach.

"Why don't you stay? Just this once?" he suggested. "The season's over and I know you don't have anywhere else to be. Just stay..." He smiled through long, dark eyelashes. "I'd make it worth your while."

"Nope," Daryl replied, blowing smoke up at the ceiling. Caesar talked too much; it wasn't like he and Rick, who had always been able to lie in bed in comfortable silence after fucking. Caesar tended to rabbit on, or listen to music that Daryl hated.

Daryl watched him as he got out of bed and switched on the television. He stared at Caesar's tanned body and the dark hair on his legs, remembering with a smile how hairy Rick's had been.

"Can feel your eyes on me," Caesar teased.

"Weren't."

Caesar turned around.

"You know, some day I'm going to find a guy who actually wants to spend proper time with me, and then what will you do?"

"I ain't stoppin' ya from goin' elsewhere," Daryl shrugged, stubbing out his cigarettes.

Caesar shook his head with a resigned smile, getting back into bed and smoothing a hand across Daryl's cheek.

"I hate smoking, you know," Caesar told him. "Used to smoke two packs a day, but after I quit, I started to feel sick at the smell, and at the taste of kissing someone who smoked." He licked his lips. "I let you smoke in here because it means that you're in my room. In my _bed_."

Daryl glanced at the door, as if looking for an escape route. He didn't like the husky tone in Caesar's voice, or the way he was now pressing his thumb against Daryl's bottom lip.

"I let you be an asshole to me, too, because it means you're speaking to me. Daryl – I like you, okay? More than in a fuck buddy way. I'm done with this being something that we do when _you_ want to."

Daryl swallowed.

"Look, I ain't never... it ain't my thing... to _be_ somethin' with someone."

Caesar looked at him with narrowed eyes, and Daryl felt his face flush.

"I don't believe you," he eventually said. "There's been someone. And whoever he is, he's the reason you're lying here, thinking about how soon you can split."

"Caesar..."

"You can go," Caesar told him. "It's fine, Dixon. I get it."

*

"Are we happy?" Rick topped up his wine. When did he become a wine drinker, anyway? When did he start knowing he preferred Cabernet over Merlot, like his dad did?

"Why do you ask?" Lori put down her fork, her salad uneaten.

"Because I want to know what _you_ think the answer to that is."

Lori rested her head against her hand, thinking. Rick had wanted to take her on a family holiday after winning the Championship, but she'd refused, and so now here they were – eating dinner together at home in the formal dining room, like Lori always insisted they did. Rick didn't see what was wrong with eating in the more homely kitchen.

"No marriage is perfect," Lori eventually replied.

"No, it's not," Rick nodded, sipping his wine. "But that doesn't stop them from being good. Is this even good?"

"I don't want us to split up, if that's what you're asking," Lori wrinkled her nose. "I'm not giving you that."

"Giving me _what_?"

"An out."

"I don't _want_ an out," Rick exclaimed.

"Don't you?"

"Meaning?"

"You don't talk," Lori cried. "I used to like that about you, you know – the silence, the calmness. Now, it feels like I don't know what's going on inside your head, like you've always held something back from me."

Rick pushed his plate of tepid pasta across the table, rubbing his eyes and swearing under his breath.

"I can't do anything right, Lori. I can't do ANYTHING _fucking_ RIGHT."

"Rick... don't shout. Do NOT shout at me like that."

"I'm not shouting at YOU. Just tell me – tell me what the FUCK I can do to make you actually smile for once. It'd be nice, you know, if you smiled. If you even pretended to be happy. YOU were the one that pursued ME. YOU were the one whose father pressured us into a wedding. Lori – what do you WANT?"

"I WANT TO FEEL ABOUT YOU THE WAY THAT I FUCKING SHOULD!" Lori shrieked, running out of the room.

Rick stood up, gripping the edge of the table and taking deep breaths so that he could resist the urge to push every plate and glass onto the floor. Instead he gulped down the rest of his wine, slamming the glass down when he was finished. He made to follow Lori, his hand catching her full glass and sending it shattering onto the floor.

When Rick went upstairs, she was frantically packing a bag, shoving underwear and pyjamas into it, and grabbing toiletries from her dressing table.

"I'm going to stay at my parents," she sobbed.

"Of course you fucking are," Rick snapped back. "Running to them at the first sign of a problem."

"The _first_ sign?" Lori laughed bitterly. "Maybe if you didn't smash things up just because we had a fight..."

"I knocked your glass over," Rick explained. "It was an _accident_."

"Don't care," Lori blustered, pushing past him and unplugging her phone charger. "I won't stay here a second longer, not with you and your anger." She jabbed a finger in his face. "You know, you really need to do something about that."

*

Daryl knocked Michonne's door. As he waited for her to answer, he checked his phone. Caesar had texted him, telling him to go over to his place after he was done at Michonne's. Daryl wondered if he was angling for an invitation to dinner, but he enjoyed his and Michonne's occasional dinner together. He loved her dry manner and witty asides about the people they knew – as long as she kept what she and Richard did together to herself.

Michonne opened the door with a smile.

"Barbecue pork sandwich and coleslaw okay?" she asked, as Daryl followed her into the kitchen.

"Sounds great," he replied, watching as she lifted a bottle of red wine from the cupboard and rifled around in the drawer for a corkscrew.

Daryl opened the bottle and poured them each a glass as Michonne lifted the meat from the oven.

"You seeing Caesar later on?"

Daryl shrugged. Michonne was bad at hiding her desire to hear all about what was happening with him and Caesar. _Nothing,_ Daryl always felt like telling her _. Nothing is happening with Caesar, bar him sucking my dick every so often. Sometimes more, a lot more, but not very often._

"Maybe, if I'm not too tired."

Michonne handed Daryl plates, which he obediently laid on the table.

"You could invite him here, if you wanted," she commented. "Plenty of food to go round."

"Ain't like that," Daryl replied, getting knives and forks from the drawer.

"Oh, so what is it like? Hasn't it been going on for what, a year?"

Daryl sat down at the table, pinching slices of tomato from the salad bowl.

"Yeah, but it's just about - you know," he said pensively. "Ain't goin' ta bring him to dinner. Ain't goin' ta sit down an' talk to him properly. He's cool, but I ain't interested in learnin' his life story, nor tellin' him mine neither. An' he doesn't even know where I live. If he called me right now an' said he wanted it all ta end, I wouldn't give it a second thought, ya know? We ain't friends, an' we ain't _anythin_ '."

"Not like...?"

"Nah, not like."

Michonne paused before she spoke.

"You been in contact with him to say congratulations for winning the Championship?"

"Nope," Daryl shrugged. "Deleted his number off my mobile."

"Ah."

"You see Sprocket much when you're with Richard?"

"I take it you mean Carl?"

"Yeah."

Michonne put down her fork.

"Now and again. Lori and Rick stick to their side of the house, and Richard sticks to his. I see Rick more than I see her." She paused.

"What?" Daryl raised an eyebrow.

"I've heard them arguing more than once," Michonne confessed. "Lots of slammed doors, then the kid starts crying, then Richard will inevitably turn up the volume of the TV or radio so that we don't hear."

"So that cheesy magazine interview was all bullshit, then?"

"Guess so."

"Why didn't ya tell me this before?"

"For what purpose?" Michonne asked. "Would it have changed anything for you? You've seemed... content, this last while. I didn't see any point in bringing it up. Should I have?"

Daryl chewed, thinking.

"No," he eventually replied. "You were right not to. He made his bed. An' I don't want to be back _there_ , 'Chonne. 'Cause I talked a good game after that weddin' about bein' okay, but truth is, it took me a long time before that was true."

Michonne gave a small smile.

"I know, Daryl. But you did it."

The pleasant silence was broken by the sound of Michonne's mobile ringing. She frowned as she looked at it.

"What the hell does Negan want?" she muttered, as she went into the lounge.

Daryl listened as her voice became raised, saying things like _Where the hell do you get off?_ and _I don't appreciate you stealing my staff without at least telling them to come to me first._

When Michonne returned, she sat down, rubbing her forehead.

"The fuck's Negan done now?" Daryl asked wearily.

"Stolen one of your mechanics off me," she replied, unable to meet Daryl's eyes for the first time since he'd known her. "Offered them almost double what we're paying him, and put him in charge of Shane Walsh's bike. Said he's been trying to poach him for the past three months, and finally agreed terms this afternoon."

"Fuckin' asshole," Daryl shook his head. "Any mechanic goin' to a new team is bringin' all of Katana's technical secrets with them. And to Sanctuary, of all fuckin' teams. _Fuck_."

"Negan plays dirty off track as well as on it," Michonne commented. She glanced up at Daryl, biting her lip. She looked drawn; worried.

"What is it?" Daryl demanded.

Michonne took a long sip of wine. She put down her glass with a thud.

"It's Caesar. The mechanic leaving to go to Sanctuary is Caesar."

*

"How many nights in a row have you slept on the sofa now?" Rick heard a voice say. He opened his eyes blearily, wincing at the pain in his back. His dad stood over him, looking down with disapproval.

"Just two," Rick replied, kicking off the blanket and rubbing his eyes.

"What have you done?"

"Nothing!" Rick exclaimed. "Absolutely nothing, dad."

"Well sort it out," Richard replied, an unusually sharp tone in his voice. "The atmosphere in this house stinks and I won't stand for it."

As he left the lounge, Rick pulled on the jeans, t-shirt and boots that he had discarded the night before. He could hear Lori with Carl, and padded upstairs quickly to see the little boy.

Lori glanced at him briefly before putting Carl down in his crib and brushing past Rick to leave the room.

"Like that, is it?" Rick asked, his arms clasped behind his head. "All picture no sound? Again?"

He bent down to kiss Carl, jogging back downstairs and outside, where he strode into the garage and slammed his fist into the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the many, many comments on the last chapter. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this one and what's been your favourite bits of the story so far x


	18. 18.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick is questioning his future, and Daryl can't see further ahead than the next race. They've never been as far apart from one another as they are right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in getting this one out. I really struggled with writer's block during this chapter, especially as there was a certain conversation in it that I really wanted to be perfect. 
> 
> As it's been several weeks since the last update, it might be helpful to let you know that we're now in 2003. This chapter takes place over the course of a whole racing season, so most of the sections do skip a couple of months ahead at a time.
> 
> **Race calendar for the Championship**  
> Woodbury Raceway, Georgia  
> Alexandria Park, Virginia  
> Seattle  
> San Francisco  
> Los Angeles  
> Detroit  
> Memphis  
> Indianapolis  
> New Orleans  
> Houston  
> Savannah  
> Atlanta
> 
> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/  
> I also post updates there about posting times and how far behind I am!

"My last chief mechanic fucked off to Sanctuary. Yer not goin' ta do that someday too, are ya?" Daryl asked the man who had just entered the Katana factory, where the final tweaks were being made to the new bike that would be used in the coming 2003 season.

"Fuck no," came the response. "Negan's a fucking asshole. Used to work for him years ago, and I won't make that mistake again."

Daryl tried to hide the fact that his mouth was twitching up at the side, wanting to smile. He looked the man up and down. He had shabby clothes and straw-coloured, greasy hair. Daryl could always sense someone who'd come from the shitty side of the tracks, like he had. And this guy, with his raspy voice and odour of cigarettes, definitely had too.

"Coffee?" Daryl poured him a cup and handed it over.

"Thanks. Name's Dwight, if you're interested."

"Hey," Daryl sipped his coffee and tried not to stare at the large burn on the side of Dwight's face; it spread from his hairline right down to his cheekbone. Daryl didn't mention it – it wasn't any of his business. "Drink yer coffee quickly, we got work ta do."

Dwight nodded.

"You probably wouldn't have know him, but my cousin used to hang with your brother," he commented as he bent down to have a proper look at the new bike.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yep," Dwight sucked air through his teeth as he ran a hand over the rear tyre. "Getting up to all kinds of shit they shouldn't... you know."

"I do," Daryl raised his eyebrow. "Your cousin still around?"

Dwight shook his head as he stood up.

"Drank himself to death five years or so ago. Just the kind of shit my family does. Yours too I'm betting, if you don't mind me saying."

"I don't give a shit if you say it, it's true," Daryl shrugged. "That piece of shit daddy of mine did the same."

Dwight and he shared a knowing look. Maybe Daryl would get along with this guy okay.

"Your cousin..." Daryl began. "When he ran with Merle, he ever know who Merle sold his old Triumph too? Asshole swapped it for blow or somethin', when I was just a kid."

"Yeah I remember that bike," Dwight replied. "Saw it in our yard once or twice when I was just starting to ride myself. I don't know where it went though, or who he'd have given it too. Why? You looking to get it back?"

"Naw," Daryl wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "That heap of junk is long gone. C'mon, less gassin' and we might get _this_ bike sorted out before the season starts."

*****

Rick felt around for the remote control that was tangled up in the bedsheets.

"Just leave it," Lori breathed, arching her back and wrapping her legs around Rick's waist. Rick's eyes closed with pleasure momentarily, before he became distracted by the sound of the television behind him once more.

"A news report on today's race doesn't really get me in the mood," he stated, trying not to listen to the footage of Shane winning. He put a hand out, smoothing it across the bed and trying to find the elusive remote. He could hear Shane's voice now, talking about how him winning the first two races of the season was all down to Sanctuary hiring the best people in the sport to join their team.

"I _said_ leave it," Lori repeated, her tone sharper this time. Rick closed his eyes and concentrated on kissing her neck as she tightened her grip around him.

At least they were in an okay place right now. A place good enough to be speaking and having sex every once in a while. Things were better than they had been six months before, that was for sure. Lori had been making his favourite meals for him, and wearing new perfume. She was smiling more than she used to, and once or twice, Rick had even heard her singing love songs to herself.

On television, Shane was still talking and laughing. Rick squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on staying hard. He wasn't in the moment, not the way Lori seemed to be. All he could think about was how good the Sanctuary bike had been during the race, and how that even though losing had hurt, it didn't hurt half as much as it used to. And Carl was three now, and becoming his own little person. Rick didn't want to be the type of racing father where he had to sacrifice time with his son because he had to be in a meeting or a garage somewhere - he'd _been_ that child himself, growing up with his dad still racing, and travelling from race to race. Rick wanted to be there for school runs and football coaching, parent-teacher meetings and birthday parties. More than he wanted to be on the track sometimes.

"Rick?" Lori asked, tugging at his hair gently.

"Sorry," Rick breathed, kissing her and beginning to move in and out of her slowly.

He finished, but it was weak and disatisfying – no doubt more so for Lori, he reflected. Pulling on his boxers and lying back on the pillows to watch television, Lori sat up, a puzzled look on her face.

"Is something wrong?" she asked. "Or are you just pissed at not winning?"

Rick scratched his head.

"I think I'm pissed about not being as pissed as I _should_ be. I dunno..." He paused. "Maybe..."

"Maybe what?" Lori's eyes widened.

Rick paused before speaking, because once he did, it would be out there. It would be real.

"Maybe it's time I thought about life after racing." He put his hand up quickly to stop Lori's mouth falling open any more than it already was. "Not any time soon, maybe in another couple of years. I'm not done yet – but, no pun intended, I can see the finish line, Lori."

Lori lay back, shaking her head.

"What's wrong?" Rick questioned.

"Nothing, it's just..."

"I thought that that would be what you wanted," Rick said. "Me not risking my life anymore? No more living out of suitcases? You, me and Carl at the ranch, settling down and having a normal family life."

"That sounds wonderful," Lori nodded, but her voice seemed flat. She sat up to put on shorts and a baggy t-shirt, before reaching over for her night cream, and slathering her face in it. She pulled her hair into a messy top-knot, and lay back down, immediately turning onto her side with her back to Rick. He reached a hand out, running it down her body gently, but she gave a mumble.

"We have an early flight, get some sleep," she said.

Rick turned his attention back to the television, where he numbly watched footage of the Baghdad sky lighting up with bombs. Like much these days, the news made him angry. There was a war on, and suddenly going home to see his little boy seemed more important than ever. He'd thought that Lori would have been happier about him wanting to wind his career down – she'd been a grid girl for years, and was now trying to be a mother while travelling around the entire country with Rick. Surely she would rather be back at the ranch permanently too.

He switched off the lamp and television, wincing at the sharp twinge in his hand. After breaking it last season, it always ached dully after a race. Lori was sleeping soundly already, but Rick lay on his back, thinking about racing, about Shane winning, about Carl. As always, he tried not to think about Daryl. Some nights, more and more nights actually, he succeeded.

*****

Daryl glared at Michonne sulkily as she handed him a lanyard.

"How long do I have to be here for?" he moaned, putting it around his neck. He looked at the gaudily-coloured laminate, reading the words _2003 US Superbike Official Pool Party._

"Four hours," she replied, straightening Daryl's collar. "All of you riders do, it's a fan event, you know that. Is a couple of hours schmoozing with sponsors and signing autographs going to kill you?"

"Yup. It is," Daryl moaned. A bullshit pool party on the rooftop of their Hollywood hotel? Place was full of assholes and people wanting a piece of him. "It's jus' bullshit havin' ta do this when we gotta race tomorrow, 'Chonne."

"I agree," Michonne nodded. "But it keeps our sponsors happy, and lets the fans get closer to you guys."

Daryl rubbed his forehead as he followed Michonne up to the rooftop of the hotel. He hated Los Angeles, with its billboards and palm trees. The girls with big fake tits and people with even faker smiles. Whole place made him feel itchy and out of place; like the hick that he was. And now, the evening before a race, he had to stand there like a performing monkey, meeting fans and chatting to sponsors – like he ever knew what to say anyway.

There were more important things to be doing than this shit. He'd only won one race so far this season. Grimes had won one too, and fucking Shane Walsh had won all the rest. Sanctuary had made a hell of a bike, Daryl had to give them that much. And at least if Shane was ahead of them all, they were all safe from his dick moves, Daryl thought grimly.

Most of the riders were chatting and laughing together around the pool, enjoying the loud techno music and promo girls in their tight clothing. Daryl obliged the line of fans who had queued up to meet him, signing autograph after autograph and making small talk with them as best he could. Some girls wanted a kiss; others wanted him to sign their tits, which he declined. He noticed that when Shane was asked the same, he was more than happy to oblige, making quips and smiling at them so much that their panties were probably soaked through. Daryl wondered when Grimes would be showing up, there was no sign of him so far.

Afterwards, he stood alone, leaning back against the wall. He wasn't the type to just walk over and join in with other peoples' conversations. He noticed a waitress walk by with a tray of drinks.

"Hey!" he called at her.

She turned around.

"Complimentary Crossbow Cola and rum, sir?"

Daryl licked his lips. Rum wasn't his drink, but fuck it.

"Sure."

The waitress handed him the glass, her eyebrow raising as Daryl plucked out the wedge of lime and threw it onto the ground.

"Enjoy, sir."

Daryl took a sip. Tasted alright.

"You comin' this way again?" he asked, attempting what he thought might be a charming smile.

"Yes sir."

"Bring another one of these but with Jack, okay?"

She winked and nodded.

Daryl finished his drink quickly. He preferred his liquor straight, but to any fans or team members, it would look like he was just having an innocent Coke.

"You meant to be drinking that?"

Daryl turned around to see the owner of the voice walking towards him. It was Caesar, in a red Sanctuary t-shirt. He was smiling broadly, like the asshole he was. Daryl hadn't spoken a word to him since he'd left Katana in the lurch. Losing a talented mechanic that he trusted had hurt him far more than losing someone he could call on when he was feeling _antsy_.

Caesar lolled against the wall, still grinning at Daryl. Daryl concentrated on drinking, and pretending to be interested in the people jumping into the pool.

"Not talking to me, huh?" Caesar asked. "You're going to have to, 'cause everyone else might think you're ogling girls in bikinis, but we both know that I know you better than that."

Daryl finished his drink and turned towards him.

"Nah, I'm _not_ talkin' ta ya. Ya fuckin' did Michonne dirty, Caesar. Fuckin' off ta Negan's team an' not even talkin' ta her about it first. She's a good boss – the best – an' she woulda listened if ya'd gone ta her."

Caesar looked down at his shoes sheepishly.

"I know, I was a jerk," he admitted. "But I grew up with nothing – just like you. Then Negan came to me, offering me a lot more money."

"Huh," Daryl grunted, trying to catch the waitress's attention. She saw him, and came over immediately, placing a Jack and Coke in his hand. He nodded in thanks and sighed as he turned back to Caesar, who was staring at him.

"I'd have stayed at Katana if I'd thought you and me were going somewhere, you know," Caesar began, a nervous expression on his face. "But it was pretty clear that it never would. I couldn't work with you, Daryl. Not with how I felt."

Daryl took a long sip, then another. Tasted good – cold and fizzy and sharp. Caesar and he were completely alone in the corner now, the fans going crazy with their cameras at the sight of Rick arriving.

"I get you, I do," Caesar continued. "You have this thing where you can't believe people would care enough about you to want you around. To need you. I wish you'd figure out your shit, Daryl."

Daryl's face felt like it was on fire, and he tipped back the rest of his drink.

"Yer all talk as usual, Caesar. Jus' make sure ya don't do any talkin' in the Sanctuary garage about us, okay?"

Caesar laughed and shook his head vigorously.

"No worries on that front. The kind of garage Negan runs doesn't say many good things about folks like us. I keep my head down, just talk about work and nothing else. Know you think I'm full of it, but I've kept quiet about _that_ to almost everyone all my fucking life and it's not going to change now."

Daryl nodded, reaching out to shake Caesar's hand.

"I trust ya. Still think yer a piece of shit for movin' teams, but I trust ya about the rest. Yer doin' well at Sanctuary, ya prick."

Caesar smiled.

"Two wins out of two for Shane, and hopefully another tomorrow."

"Alright asshole, no need to rub it in," Daryl grumbled.

They drank in what was almost a comfortable silence, watching Grimes pose for photographs, and Shane continue to sign various female body parts. Caesar acted as Daryl's own personal barman, continuing to bring him over Jack and Cokes while Daryl dealt with fans; his face starting to ache with all the fake smiles he was giving for photographs. As the sun went down and the DJ's music began to pump out of the speakers even louder, Daryl started to crave a cigarette. All the booze he'd had didn't help the yearning, and he looked around for a secluded corner to light up in.

"You alright?" Caesar approached with more drinks. Daryl nodded, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand and realising that he was sweating. Caesar stifled a laugh.

"What?"

"You're another drink away from being wasted, Daryl," he whispered. "You think I don't remember the signs?"

"Whatever," Daryl retorted, taking his lighter from his pocket and promptly dropping it onto the ground with a clatter. He bent down to pick it up and stumbled a little. "Jus' need a smoke, is all."

"I know where," Caesar said, grabbing Daryl's arm and leading him to the hotel's public restroom.

Daryl barely registered the black marble sinks and bronze mirrors of the luxurious bathroom as Caesar pulled him into a cubicle and pressed him up against the door. Daryl half-laughed, still thinking about how much he wanted a cigarette.

"The fuck are ya doin'?" he slurred, letting Caesar run his hands underneath Daryl's t-shirt and press kisses against his belly. It'd been a good few months since he'd had this, and Caesar was good at it – better than good – a rushed blow job wouldn't do any harm, would it?

Daryl slumped against the door and put his hands behind his head, happy to let Caesar ease his jeans down and begin to lick and suck his dick. Daryl's breath caught in his throat as he heard the slurping noises begin. Man, Caesar had been right – he was getting hammered, but that knowledge only made him want to drink even more.

Daryl froze as he heard the main restroom door creak open, then there was the sound of shuffling feet and the splash of piss against a urinal. On the ground, Caesar grinned up at him, releasing Daryl's cock and wiping it across his bottom lip. Daryl pressed a finger to his lips in a _Shhh_ gesture. Fuck fuck fuck, this had been stupid, reckless, completely fucking _insane_.

Daryl held his breath as he heard water running from the faucet, and then the sound of a man's cough. Daryl froze. It was Rick, he'd know that cough anywhere. Here he was, getting his dick sucked by a Sanctuary mechanic he'd spent two years fucking, and on the other side of the door was Rick fucking Grimes.

Caesar began to suck him again, and Daryl imagined Rick hearing the slick, wet noise of lips against cock; maybe pausing at the cubicle door, pressing his ear up against it, listening to every single thing, maybe palming himself over his jeans.

Instead, there were footsteps and the restroom door closed. Rick was gone.

Daryl tapped Caesar's shoulder, his erection suddenly going down.

"Stop."

Caesar looked up, wiping his mouth.

" _Stop?_ "

"Ain't into it, not right now," Daryl shrugged. "I need a fuckin' smoke an' I want another drink."

He zipped himself back up, not even looking Caesar in the eye as he slunk out of the cubicle.

*

Rick looked at his watch and winced. It was almost midnight, and he had to be at the track in less than eight hours. Lori had spent the day in Rodeo Drive, spending his money, and had no doubt gone to bed hours ago.

There were still a few fans in the lobby of the hotel, hanging on for one last glimpse of any riders who still happened to be there. He signed autographs for the straddlers, hugging one girl who was hysterically sobbing and telling him that she loved him. Rick would never get used to, or understand, that kind of fanaticism.

"Good luck, Rick!" the fans called out as he walked to the elevator, saying thanks under his breath as the doors opened immediately. All he wanted was a shower, a few minutes of television, then sleep.

He walked out onto the corridor of the fifth floor and saw a body lying face-first on a leather sofa, their battered brown boots hanging off the side. Rick didn't need to look any further to know who it was – Daryl had been wearing those boots constantly for as long as he could remember.

Rick looked up and down the corridor, breathing a sigh of relief that no-one else was around. If a journalist saw Daryl like this, he would be crucified in the press. Rick prodded Daryl's shoulder, to no avail. He then shook him gently, eliciting a groan from the other man. Rick shook him harder, hissing his name until Daryl opened his eyes and gave a grunt. His hair was damp and his face red and sweaty as he looked up at Rick irritably, immediately slumping back down again. Rick tugged the back of Daryl's hair sharply.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" he spat.

Daryl rolled over onto his side and waved Rick away.

"Get off me, Grimes."

"Daryl, _Daryl_ , _listen_ to me." Rick knelt down, grabbing Daryl's shirt collar and attempting to pull him off the sofa. Daryl wriggled, but the alcohol was dulling his usual strength, and Rick was able to hold him up. "You don't get up _now_ , and other people asides from me will come along eventually and see that you're hammered."

"Fuck off." Daryl sat up, shrugging Rick away. Rick reached a hand out and pulled Daryl upright. Fucking hell, Daryl was as booze-soaked as Rick had ever seen him. This was bad.

"What room are you in?" Rick asked.

"Fuck off," Daryl repeated. "Need another drink. Jus' one more."

Rick grabbed Daryl's wrist, yanking him along the corridor. Daryl trailed behind, cursing Rick's name and dragging his feet.

"Keep drinking, and you'll still be drunk in the morning," Rick warned. "Race in that state, and you'll kill yourself, or one of us. Or at the very least, ruin your entire fucking career. Ruin _Michonne's_ career. You want that? To destroy Katana?"

"'S fine. Can ride drunk better than most of ya can sober."

"Come _on_ ," Rick ordered. "We need to get you to your room."

He put an arm around Daryl's shoulder, which was quickly batted away.

"Don' need yer help ta fuckin' walk."

"Then _walk_."

Rick manoevered Daryl along the corridor, holding him upright as best he could and imploring Daryl to find his key card.

"'S here," Daryl eventually said, leaning his forehead against the door and attempting to swipe the card several times and missing. Rick tutted, snatching it off him and opening the door successfully.

Daryl pulled off his shirt as he walked into his room, and Rick quickly averted his eyes. Daryl scratched his belly and flashed Rick a look, his expression completely unreadable. Rick cleared his throat, looking away and then bending down to open the door of the mini-fridge. He lifted out a bottle of mineral water and set it on Daryl's nightstand.

"Drink that, it'll help," Rick nodded towards it.

"Like you give a damn, Grimes," Daryl grouched, falling backwards onto the mattress. He unzipped his jeans and began to wriggle out of them. Rick stood at the end of the bed, unable to stop himself from watching.

Daryl sat up on his elbows, his eyebrow raised.

"Ain't ya goin'? Ya did yer little do-gooder thing, ain't Lori waitin' fer ya?"

"Just want to make sure you're alright before I go," Rick replied.

"Pfft," Daryl retorted, cursing as he continued to struggle with his jeans. "Fuckin' help me then."

Rick looked down, trying to keep his hands from shaking as he grabbed the bottom of Daryl's jeans and slowly pulled them down, revealing plain black boxers and Daryl's skinny, untanned legs. Daryl, emboldened by alcohol, was staring at him as he did so.

"Ya gonna take my boxers down too?"

Rick's mouth parted to reply, but he couldn't think of anything to say, and then Daryl laughed bitterly.

"Ya can go now, Grimes. Don't need yer help ta sleep."

*****

"Contract talk time again," Hershel smiled, as Rick walked up the steps of the Greene farmhouse. "Come sit on the porch. How many times have we done this now?"

Rick smiled and shrugged as he sat down onto the old wicker porch chair, helping himself to a glass of lemonade from the large pitcher that was sitting on the table. He took a handful of potato chips from the bowl, and tried to think how he could get the words out as he chewed.

He watched as Hershel handed over a pile of paper and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket.

"We've always been honest with each other Rick," he said. "I don't see the point in playing any games – so there you go, another two year contract is yours for the taking. It's all down there in black and white, terms, conditions, win bonuses..."

Rick put his glass down and looked into Hershel's earnest pale blue eyes. It pained him to see Hershel's face fall; the older man had always felt like a second father to him.

"Oh Rick," Hershel's voice wavered. "This isn't where you tell me that Negan has offered you millions to race for Sanctuary, is it?"

"No, not that," Rick shook his head. "But that contract is the last one I'm ever going to sign."

"Why?" Hershel sounded perplexed. "It's not because Shane Walsh has won almost every race this year, is it? Racing has its ups and downs, you know that. Sanctuary are having a good run this season, but we'll be back next year."

"I'm getting tired, Hershel," Rick winced as he saw the hurt on his boss's face. "It's nothing to do with Shane. I'll do next season and the one after, and them I'm done. I mean it. I want Carl to have a normal childhood, and that means no more travelling, and a dad who isn't risking his life every other weekend."

Hershel stood up, leaning against the porch and looking out onto his sweeping lawns. In the distance, ponies grazed and there was the faraway buzz of a tractor. Rick picked up the pen and signed the contract. Two more years – he'd be 30 years old by the time his last ever race came around, and that seemed like a fitting age to go.

"Have you spoken to your father about this?" Hershel asked.

Rick got up off his chair and joined Hershel at the fence.

"I haven't spoken to anyone," Rick admitted. "I mentioned it to Lori a few months back, but I don't think she believed me."

"You should tell someone who understands," Hershel told him. "Your dad. Or Daryl, maybe. Your careers have followed the same path, after all. Your whole lives have."

"Maybe I will," Rick nodded, knowing that the words coming out of his mouth were a lie.

Hershel embraced him after he signed the new contract, and Rick almost thought that perhaps there was a tear in the old man's eye. Rick felt choked up himself; all his life he'd wanted to race for Team Greene, and now here he was, driving away from the farmhouse having told the great Hershel Greene that he wouldn't be racing beyond the end of 2005.

Rick rubbed his eyes irritably on the journey home, refusing to let that telltale prickle develop into anything else. Tell Daryl? Tell him what? They weren't anything to each other anymore, that much was clear after that night in LA when he'd found Daryl shitfaced, so would Daryl even care that he had set a date for his retirement, if he knew? Probably not. Not anymore.

Rick switched off the radio; that omnipresent Black Eyed Peas tune about love bugging him, and pressed his foot down harder onto the accelerator. There were only a few races left this year, and he was at the point where he wanted to get them over and done with. Lori had travelled with him all year, and yet sometimes she seemed to be so distant. They were both only 28, and decades of married life stretched before them – Rick hadn't expected it to seem so stale, so quickly.

As he drove up towards the ranch, Rick saw Lori's father's car sitting outside the house. Rick rolled his eyes, parking beside it and taking out his mobile phone. In case anyone was looking out of the window, he pretended to dial a number and then held it up to his ear, reciting the lyrics of an old Boston song that his dad had liked to play to him when he was a kid, as if he was having a conversation with someone.

He'd go in and face them in five minutes. He would.

*****

Daryl said thank you to all of his mechanics as he returned to the garage after a lacklustre fifth place in the final race of the year. He could hear cheering and loud music coming from the Sanctuary garage, where they were celebrating Shane becoming Champion. Katana's whole season had been a bust, and he didn't want to be here, shaking the hands of all his crew – he wanted to be in a dark bar where he could brood and ignore people, or back at home on his porch with a cigarette.

Michonne gave him a brief hug, her face glum as she pulled away.

"You've made me get too used to winning, Daryl," she sighed. "We'll get them next season."

"Yup. We will," Daryl replied, slapping her arm.

"What's your plans for tonight?" she asked, putting paperwork into her briefcase and accepting handshakes from the departing mechanics. "Richard is having an end of season dinner at the ranch. You're more than welcome. Say no if you want to, but..."

"No," Daryl interrupted. "Come on, you know I can't."

"I know," Michonne smiled ruefully before lowering her voice. "I guess I'd just rather have your company than Lori's." She winked. "Want me to sneak you over some leftovers tomorrow? Richard won't mind."

Daryl laughed, thinking of all the happy meals he, Rick and Richard had had together over the years. His mouth began to water thinking of all those rich soups and hunks of bread.

"Sure," he nodded. "Only if you bring some dessert too."

"As if I'd forget about your sweet tooth," Michonne scoffed. She gave him a peck on the cheek. "Will you be home if I call over about ten tomorrow morning?"

"Ain't got nowhere else ta be," Daryl shrugged.

Daryl heard a voice call his name, and when he turned around, Caesar was popping his head around the garage door.

"Just calling in to say goodbye," he explained.

Daryl waved him inside, and Caesar entered the garage.

"Guess I should say congratulations," Daryl said, holding out a hand. Caesar shook it.

"Thanks. That means a lot, coming from you," he smiled. "Hey, we're all going to a bar now to celebrate. I know you and Shane don't get along, but there'll be others there, you don't even need to speak to him..."

"I do my drinkin' alone," Daryl said. "But thanks for the offer."

Caesar sighed heavily.

"I kinda worry about you, Daryl Dixon."

"Well don't waste yer time. Enjoy yer drinkin'."

*****

"Mommy won't believe that daddy forgot to pack his trunks," Rick said to a giggling Carl, as he led the little boy inside to his Swim School. This parent-toddler class was meant to be a relaxing day for Rick, and he'd already fucked up.

"Silly daddy!" Carl laughed, his little plump cheeks reddening with glee.

"Silly daddy," Rick agreed, wincing at the thought of the drive back home, and then back to the pool again. But he'd promised Carl to take him swimming today, and Rick wanted to pack in as much as he could while racing was done for the year. No doubt Lori would have something to say about his mistake. He would have asked his dad to meet them halfway with the trunks, but he was staying at Michonne's place, as he did more and more these days.

"Hey there, Grimes boys!" a friendly voice called from behind them, and the instructor appeared, a neon green pair of sunglasses atop her head.

"Hello Tara," Rick smiled, as Carl ran towards her excitedly.

"Ready for some fun, my dude?" she hunkered down to talk to Carl.

"Listen, I'm an idiot," Rick began. "I just realised on the drive over that I packed all of Carl's things but none of my own. Would you mind looking after him while I go back home to get them? It's only 20 minutes away."

"Sure!" Tara smiled and took Carl's hand. "We can splash about until you get back here. Right, little starfish?"

"Thank you," Rick said, and she winked.

"It's okay," Tara grinned. "You can give me an autograph as a thank you – my girlfriend's a big fan of yours."

Rick rushed outside and hopped back into his car. If he put his foot down, he could easily shave 10 minutes off his journey. The worst of the morning traffic had cleared, and he was whistling happily to himself by the time he pulled up outside the front door of the ranch. It could be like this every day when he stopped racing, and he was looking forward to it.

He noticed that Lori's car was parked at a slightly different angle from when he had left earlier, but he knew that she sometimes liked to get fresh bagels and coffee when she had a morning to herself, or pop out to get her nails done.

Rick walked around the back of the ranch and entered the house through the kitchen door. There was a half-empty glass of orange juice at the sink, and Rick raised an eyebrow. It wasn't his or his dad's, and Lori would never leave a dish sitting unwashed. The house seemed deserted, but Lori enjoyed a long soak in the bath now and again. Rick imagined she was in there right now, surrounded by candles and whatever expensive bath products she had bought lately.

He went upstairs, taking two at a time at his haste to get his trunks and get back to the pool. At the top, he saw that his and Lori's bedroom door was closed. One of her shoes was lying on the carpet, and a framed photo from their wedding day had fallen off the wall.

Rick's heart began to beat heavily in his chest. It didn't look like they had been broken into, but something was definitely amiss. He was about to call out Lori's name when he heard it - a woman's cries and the lower timbre of a man's voice. Rick opened the bedroom door as quietly as he could and was confronted with the sight of a man's tanned buttocks clenching as he fucked Lori on the bed. She was writhing beneath him, clawing at his back, and gasping his name.

"Fuck me harder, yes just like that, harder. Oh _Shane_."

"Yeah Shane, fuck my wife harder, since she's asking so nicely," Rick sneered, glued to the spot. He kicked the door behind him closed, trapping the three of them in the room.

Lori screamed, pushing Shane off her and grabbing the sheets in an attempt to cover her completely naked body. Shane jumped from the bed as if he'd been electrocuted, his cock going limp. He held his hands up, walking towards Rick.

"Come on man, we can talk about this, okay? Just let me get some clothes on."

"Oh you go right ahead," Rick told him icily. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket, making sure he was blocking Shane's path, should he decide to make a run for the door. "I have two calls to make first. Then yes, we will be fucking talking."

Rick calmly called his father, asking him to collect Carl from swimming class. Then he called Tara, explaining that he wouldn't be coming back, and that Carl's grandfather would be picking him up. Rick was amazed at how he was able to keep the anger from his voice.

By the time he had hung up, Lori was sitting on the edge of the bed, a navy silk robe wrapped around her thin figure. She was clutching her stomach, rocking back and forth with tears streaming down her face. Rick stared at her impassionately before turning to Shane, who was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. Rick was almost scared of the cold, detached anger that he felt. It went beyond seething. He could see himself punching Shane's handsome face until it was a bloody, broken mess. Instead he stood staring at him, his eyes wide and his breathing oddly steady.

"How long?" he eventually was able to ask. "Months and months, right?" Rick turned towards Lori. Her eyes were already red and puffy. She looked at him, mouthing an apology, but no words came out.

"Man, leave her be," Shane shook his head.

"That is my _wife_ ," Rick retorted. " _Mine_." He pointed to Lori. "So you've been fucking Shane in _our_ bed. Did you do it when you were meant to be looking after my _son_? _Well_?"

"Rick, I'm sorry!" Lori croaked, her eyes manic and her entire face blotchy. "I'm so sorry. I love you! Please!"

"No. No you don't," Rick whispered, the realisation of what he was saying washing over him. He cocked his head towards the door. "Get some clothes on and get out."

Lori emitted an ear-splitting wail, looking up at Rick with begging eyes. He stared back, and she sobbed as she pulled on sweatpants and a hoodie, throwing deodorant and make-up into her purse. She didn't look at Rick again as she scurried out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Rick waited for the noise of the front door closing before turning to Shane, who was cockily leaning against the wall, his biceps bulging through the thin t-shirt he had put on.

"I should beat your ass, you know that?" Rick began, standing opposite. "If I hadn't known you my whole life..."

Shane's mouth turned up at the side in a snide smile.

"I'd say you ain't got it in you anyway, man, but I look at you, full of that anger you're too scared to let out, and you do. I can _see_ it." He moved to face Rick, so close their noses were almost touching. In that moment Rick had never hated anyone more.

" _Jesus_ , Shane," Rick cried. "You're not even fucking sorry, are you? Lori and I have a child, and you're standing there like..."

"Like the man she needs," Shane replied.

Rick lifted his fist, ready to drive it into Shane's teeth, but something stopped him. Something about the narrow-eyed, smug expression on Shane's face. Shane licked his lips.

"You got something to say?" Rick asked.

Shane tipped his head to the side as if he was thinking. Rick suddenly felt a sense of dread.

"Oh now I'm not sure you want to hear it," an expression of glee spread across Shane's face.

"I can handle anything you say, asshole," Rick snapped.

Shane swaggered over to the chair in the corner and sat down, pressing his fingertips together as if he was about to tell a story. He looked Rick up and down before beginning to speak.

"You know our new mechanic, Caesar, right? He came to Sanctuary from Katana."

"I know of him," Rick shrugged. "Never spoke to him. Get on with it."

Rick had no idea where the conversation was going, but he began to feel itchy with nerves.

"He told me he doesn't drink, can't handle his liquor," Shane continued. "Said he either tells you all his secrets, pukes or both. Got him hammered the night I won the Championship, and yeah, he puked. But not until he let slip a few things. Told me he was gay and did I mind. I said no, 'cause I don't. If he's making my bike faster, I don't give a shit if he's sticking his dick in men, women, or in an exhaust for all I care."

Rick started to feel dizzy; he could feel the blood rushing to his head. Shane kept talking, and the more he talked, the sicker Rick felt.

"Like I said, Caesar was shitfaced. Ended up telling me that there was someone he'd fallen for – someone he'd worked with. Wouldn't give it up who it was, so I gave him a shot of tequila. And another. And then two more. Had to put him in a cab in the end – but not before he told me who it was."

"Who?" Rick thought he might vomit.

"You _know_ who."

"I really don't, Shane."

Shane's smile became so wide that it looked like his face might split in two.

"Come on, don't tell me you never knew Dixon fucks men."

"I don't know what..." Rick shook his head. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

"It all got me to thinking, Rick," Shane continued. "About when we were younger, about all those times you and Dixon fell out. Then I remembered one night behind the motorhomes. I was with some chick – might even have been Lori – and I heard another couple, or I thought I did. Even caught a glimpse, but thought I must have made a mistake. After what Caesar told me, I know now that I _did_ see what I thought that night."

"Oh yeah?" Rick asked, his voice catching in his throat. "What do you _think_ you saw?"

Shane held Rick's gaze.

"...You and Daryl."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duh-duh-DUHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
> 
> 1\. A few of you picked up on Lori/Shane after the last chapter, so well done, you astute bunch.  
> 2\. Shane saw Rick and Daryl waaaay back in Chapter 7.
> 
> Comments/thoughts/theories/predictions are always SO welcome and very much appreciated.
> 
> I will try to get the next chapter out a lot quicker, mostly because I am positively gagging to get to Chapter 20 and all the things I have planned for it ;)


	19. 19.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick and Daryl deal with the practical and emotional fallout of Shane's revelation in their own ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly it's feast or famine with me when it comes to posting chapters. Sorry I have no proper posting schedule, I just post 'em as I write 'em!
> 
> This chapter picks up where the last one left off, and I should warn you that this contains homophobia/homophobic slurs. Those bits were unpleasant to write but relevant to the story.
> 
> **Race calendar for the Championship**  
> Woodbury Raceway, Georgia  
> Alexandria Park, Virginia  
> Seattle  
> San Francisco  
> Los Angeles  
> Detroit  
> Memphis  
> Indianapolis  
> New Orleans  
> Houston  
> Savannah  
> Atlanta
> 
> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/  
> I also post updates there about posting times and how far behind I am!

Shane sat back in the chair, smiling that shit-eating grin of his.

"You saw _nothing_ of the sort," Rick told him, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. "And you know _shit_."

"Oh I did, Rick," Shane replied. "Your red cheeks tell me I'm right, too."

In his heart, Rick knew that Shane was telling the truth. Back in those days, he and Daryl had always been as discreet as they could – but sometimes, they had been swept away by their need for one another.

But he wasn't about to let Shane have this over him.

"If you _think_ you saw us, why didn't you tell anyone right there and then?" he queried. "Something like that – well, that's something pretty big to keep to yourself, don't you think?"

Shane's brow furrowed, and he seemed to be wondering that himself as he began to reply.

"We go way back, Rick. Guess it was because of that. And because it seemed so fucking _out there_ that I didn't think anyone would believe me." He paused. "And maybe I thought I could bide my time, see if maybe me knowing it could be used to my advantage some way down the line."

"Is that some kind of _threat_? You talking about _blackmail_?" Rick put his hands on his hips, his nervousness beginning to be replaced by rage. How dare this fucker sit here in his bedroom, throwing accusations at _him_ when he had been cuckolding Rick mere minutes before.

"Nope," Shane said. "I just don't give a shit how I win. I'm not going to pass up the chance to fuck with your head, or anyone's. Come on, we both know that up here - " He tapped his temple "- I wouldn't use the word _nutjob_ , but..."

Rick didn't appreciate being chided like that. He jabbed his finger in the air angrily.

"If you were biding your time, Shane, seems like you wasted that opportunity the second you stuck that dick of yours in my wife."

"You saying I'm right about all of this, Rick?" Shane asked coyly.

"Fuck, no. Whatever you _think_ you saw happened _years_ ago. Probably just your mind playing tricks on you."

"Like hell it was," Shane hissed. "Gotta say, I always knew Dixon was weird as fuck, but never had him down as a qu..."

"Don't use that word," Rick warned.

"Why? 'Cause you're one of them too?"

"I'm not. And neither is Daryl. But I won't have words like that spoken in my home."

"Whatever," Shane rolled his eyes. "Either way, he's a fucking freak. Always has been. If anyone deserves to be outed, it's him."

"You won't say anything, Shane," Rick was suddenly desperate to defend Daryl and keep him safe.

"Oh yeah? How do you know that, Rick?"

"Well 'cause I just don't think it's in your interests to. Fucking Lori Grimes behind the champion's back? The daughter in law of the great Richard Grimes? It wouldn't look good for you any more than it would for me. The fans would hate you, and the sponsors would drop you like _that_."

Rick clicked his fingers, wishing he felt as confident as he sounded.

"They'd all think you'd lost your damn mind," he continued. "Who the hell would believe it if you told anyone what you think you saw? You'd sound like a crazy person, and you know it. And I don't need to tell you that your reputation has only just gotten better this season. You going to throw that away?"

"Maybe you're right," Shane considered, but then a smug expression came over his face. "Apart from one thing – you ain't champion any more."

Shane stood up, picking up his boots, keys and wallet. Rick's shirt was sticking to him, and he was sure Shane could smell the nervous sweat that was covering his body.

"You're leaving?" he asked.

"We ain't got anything else to say, Rick. Unless you're planning to keep me here as a prisoner so I keep my mouth shut? Don't worry – I ain't planning on saying anything. Not any time soon, anyway. Maybe I'd like to hold this over your head for a while."

Rick had to bite his lip to stop himself saying thanks. Shane didn't deserve his thanks. He deserved a kick in the balls, at the very least. He was lucky he was leaving the ranch with all of his teeth intact.

Rick followed Shane outside.

"You're not to set foot in this house ever again, do you understand?" Rick asked. He was about to tell Shane to stay away from his wife too, but he didn't. It was Shane that broached the subject.

"You and Lori? It over?"

"You have some fucking nerve asking me that, Shane."

"It's a legitimate question."

"We have Carl to think about," Rick snapped. "He's my priority. Not her, and not your dick. My _son_."

*

Rick slept fitfully, feeling like he was suffering from a bad fever. His head throbbed and the shorts and t-shirt he slept in were soaked in sweat. Tossing and turning all night, he was glad that his father had taken Carl to Michonne's for a sleepover without any questions being asked.

He lay on his stomach, face pressed into the pillow, thinking about Shane and Lori, his son, and his marriage. Lori was at her parents', he knew that much from a text message she had sent him. Rick knew they were done. He wasn't even sad, just regretful about the years with her he had wasted. He never would have made her happy, never. He wasn't sure that anybody could, but clearly Shane was succeeding more than most. Rick's anger had already faded, replaced by weariness and worry about how they would tell Carl that he wouldn't be living with both mommy and daddy anymore.

And Daryl. Daryl and Caesar. The knowledge that somebody else's mouth and skin and cock had been close to Daryl's had Rick up out of bed, pacing the floor restlessly and feeling tight-chested with jealousy and regret. He wasn't stupid – he knew that feeling like that made him a hypocrite, given he was – had been – married, but the thought of Daryl fucking another man made his flesh crawl.

*

The next morning, Rick sat in the parking lot of a convenience store near Lori's parents' place. No way would he go near that house, knowing full well that she had probably spun her dad some bullshit story about why she wasn't staying the night at the ranch. He saw her approaching, wearing a large grey hoodie that he knew for a fact belonged to Shane. The nerve of her.

She opened the car door and got inside, looking younger and smaller with no make-up on. Immediately, she began to beat on Rick's chest with her fists, shrieking at him.

"You fucking liar, you fucking bastard!" she cried, as Rick tried to shield himself from her surprisingly painful punches. She gave him a hard shove against the car door, making a noise that was almost primal-sounding.

Rick grabbed her wrists, stopping her assault. She wrestled herself from his grasp and landed a punch on the dashboard that had her wincing in pain and holding her hand against her chest.

" _You_ ," she hissed. "And _him."_

 _"_ What?" Rick exclaimed, turning to face her. Her entire face was twisted in loathing.

"Don't play the innocent, Rick. Shane _told_ me. You made me feel like a fucking _whore_ yesterday and you? All this time, all this fucking _time_ , you were... you were..."

She put her head in her hands. That fucking piece of shit Shane had told Lori.

"Lori – whatever he told you, it's not true."

Lori raised her head and swallowed hard. Her voice came out in a croak, and for a second, Rick felt a pang of sympathy. She had been told something so huge that Rick understood how tough it must be for her to comprehend it.

"I don't believe you," she whispered.

"I swear, the whole time we were married, I didn't..."

"Are you gay?" she interrupted.

"No." Rick shook his head.

"A lot makes sense now," Lori nodded, as if she was talking to herself. "You always seemed like you were holding back, Rick. Sometimes it was like you just weren't _there_."

Rick rubbed his forehead and glared at a dog-walker going by who stared into the window as she passed the car. He couldn't gauge Lori's mood now at all. But he knew one thing, their marriage was done. It was only a matter of minutes before one of them said the word 'divorce'.

"What did Shane tell you?" he asked tentatively.

Lori's face was ashen as she answered.

"That Daryl Dixon is a... I won't use the word he said. And that you and him..."

"It's not true," Rick lied.

"I think it is," Lori said flatly. Rick was surprised to see her take a pack of cigarettes from her purse and light one. The smell reminded him of Daryl. "I think it was going on for a long time before we met. I think I've given you an out."

Rick was so damn tired. There was no point denying everything, because Lori had already made her mind up.

"Whatever Shane's opinion is on everything, he's probably wrong, Lori. I'm not going to tell you anything about it, but I was a faithful husband and that's all you should care about."

"A faithful _husband_ ," Lori mocked. "What about the years before we got married, huh?"

"Are you honestly asking me about cheating when Shane has been balls deep in you for God knows how long?" Rick raged. "Neither of us can take the moral high ground, here."

"AT LEAST THAT'S..."

"...At least that's WHAT?"

" _NATURAL_!" Lori sobbed. She reached for the door handle to get out but Rick pulled her back by the shoulder. "Get your fucking hands off me, you fucking animal, you fucking _psycho_ ," she spat.

"Lori stay in the car. Stay in the FUCKING car," Rick demanded, holding his hands up to show he wasn't going to touch her again. The way he felt scared him. It was taking all of his willpower not to start the engine and floor the accelerator.

"How could you humiliate me like this?" Lori was sobbing now, her nose running and eyes streaming. Her tone changed to one of resentment. "Oh don't worry, I won't tell anyone else. I don't want people knowing that my son's father is a... is a..." She sniffed. "And Shane won't say a word either. Everyone knows that you two grew up together. He doesn't want folks to think he's like you and Dixon."

"How fucking noble," Rick couldn't stop himself from saying. He sat back in the seat. "This is a fucking mess."

"Yes. It is," Lori agreed.

"It wasn't ever me you wanted, was it?" Rick pondered. "It was just a rider – any rider. Would have been Shane from the very beginning, but he cheated. And I was there, reliable. Inexperienced, probably, and easily caught up in it all."

"I wanted you for _you_ ," Lori argued.

"The me that raced," Rick replied. "And in two years that won't be who you married, will it."

"I need the thrill," Lori admitted. "Watching you on the bike, fast and strong. In your leathers. The competition... the danger."

"And the money," Rick sneered.

"I can't deny that that's important to me," Lori said. "I grew up with it. What? You think I'd go from my parents to somewhere where I had to scrimp and save?"

"Racing is just my _job_ ," Rick exclaimed. "It's not me the person. Don't you want _Rick_. Aren't I enough for you without all that? You know that Shane's going to stop someday too, right? You won't have a rider forever, no matter who you're with."

"I know," Lori said numbly.

"We've both fucked up here," Rick said, and she nodded in agreement.

"I meant what I said, Rick. I'm not going to say anything, and I don't ever want to know about _him_. But you have to let me deal with my parents in my own way. My father can't know about what I've done. I'll be silent if you will."

"I assure you, explaining any of this to your father is the last thing I want to do."

Lori sat forward in the seat and turned to Rick before opening the car door.

"I want a divorce," she said, her voice trembling.

Rick sucked on his bottom lip before replying.

"I want Carl."

*

The wedding photo of he and Lori that sat on the nightstand caught Rick's eye as soon as he walked back into what had been their bedroom. Even when it had been taken, he had felt unsure about the whole thing, but even he hadn't thought that the marriage would only last for a little over three years.

What a waste of a chunk of his twenties, he reflected, as he pulled sheets and pillows from the bed. They were pale pink in colour, like their rug and bathroom towels were. Rick kicked the bedding across the floor, then upended the mattress, which he planned on burning. It felt good, to ruin their marital bed. He picked up the photograph in its gaudy gold frame and dropped it onto the floor, stamping a heel on it until he heard the satisfactory crack of glass. Rick laughed sharply, grabbing a china doll that Lori loved and he hated, and hurling it at the wall. It smashed into several pieces. He turned around, enjoying the destruction, and wondering what he could ruin next. The dresser was laden with jars of cleansers and creams, perfume bottles, useless trinkets and make-up. Rick swept a hand across the lot, letting them fall onto the floor, emptying their contents which seeped into the plush carpet.

"Fuck it," he said out loud, sliding his hands underneath the dresser and up-ending the whole thing. The mirror broke and cracked as it thudded against the floor, and Rick smiled wickedly.

He put his hands on his hips and surveyed his work. The room was now in complete disarray. Rick turned on his heel and walked out.

*

"Yer makin' me really fuckin' nervous," Daryl drummed his fingers on the table in Michonne's pristine kitchen. "Can I at least get a beer?"

"No," Michonne replied. She looked oddly sheepish, and as she poured them both glasses of water, Daryl noticed that her hands were shaking. She sat down, refusing to look Daryl in the eye.

"What's goin' on?" Daryl asked. "Somethin' ta do with the team? Or you? Yer not fuckin' leavin' Katana, are ya?"

Michonne shook her head quickly.

"You know I hate you smoking, Daryl, but you might want to have one."

Daryl complied, lighting up quickly and taking a draw. Michonne sucked air in through her teeth.

"Rick called me this morning, he's coming over in 10 minutes."

"The hell?" Daryl was beginning to feel anxious. Michonne was normally as steady as a rock; the one who could be relied on to be rational.

"He needs to speak to you."

"'Bout what?"

"It isn't my place to tell you."

"Fuck off, 'Chonne. Tell me what? Rick ain't here yet, at least give me some warnin'." He lowered his voice. "I don't want to see him, 'Chonne. I ain't goin' back ta all that, ya hear?"

"Rick and Lori have split up because Rick found her in bed with Shane. They're getting divorced. And..."

"An' what?" Daryl's heart was thumping; feeling heady with relief about Rick and Lori, despite his better judgement.

"Fuck," Michonne groaned, her head in her hands. She looked up, one eye closed as she spoke. "Shane knows, Daryl."

"Knows what?"

" _Knows_."

Daryl stood up, pushing his chair away. It scraped noisily against the tiled floor.

"What? Tell me yer fuckin' kiddin'."

Michonne's lack of response answered Daryl's question. He scratched his head, ran his hands over his face, then sat back down.

"How?"

Michonne shrugged.

"I didn't get the full details from Rick when he called me, but Shane says he saw you two kissing years ago. I mean, years and years ago."

"Then he knows _nothin_ '," Daryl said firmly. "He ain't got any proof. We weren't stupid, 'Chonne. Maybe slipped once or twice, but we never... not anywhere where someone could see..."

He jumped slightly as there was a knock at the door. Michonne got up to answer it, and when Daryl looked down at his hands, they were quivering slightly. He heard muffled voices, and then Michonne popped her head around the door.

"I'll leave you to it," she whispered, and padded softly into her bedroom. Daryl heard the click of her door being closed, and then Rick walked into the kitchen. He sat down opposite Daryl, looking guilty and pale.

"I don't think he'll say anything," Rick said right away. "Neither will she."

"Ain't no guarantee of that, Rick," Daryl rasped, lighting a cigarette. The way his voice had croaked when he'd said Rick's name made him cringe. They hadn't been in a room alone together since the wedding just over three years ago, and he felt oddly shy and uncomfortable.

"Bottom line is, it wouldn't look good for anyone if Shane opened his mouth. And even if he did, who the fuck is going to believe him? Nobody would think that we... we... well, you know."

"Uh-huh. I do."

"This is one time when I'm happy to use my surname to my advantage," Rick continued. "The press and fans wouldn't like a Grimes being fucked over like this, and not about Shane Walsh, of all people. Guess him acting like a dangerous asshole on track these past few years has worked in our favour."

"I guess so," Daryl nodded pensively. He paused, stealing a glance at Rick while he was rubbing his eyes. Man, as pale as Rick was, age was treating him well. He had the beginnings of stubble on his face, and his hair was curling a little at the bottom; Daryl had never liked it cropped close. "'M sorry about yer marriage," he ventured, knowing that Rick knew as well as he did that he didn't mean it.

"Well," Rick leant back in his chair, clearly starting to feel more comfortable. "I probably shouldn't have done it. I always thought when I did it, it'd be perfect. I'd go racing and come home to a happy house full of kids and a wife who was happy to have me back and..." He squeezed his eyes shut, as if in pain.

Daryl bit down onto his lip and tried to stop thinking about how he wanted to reach out and take the wedding ring off Rick's finger. He had no idea what to say, and he knew that if he spoke, his voice would shake. Maybe it had been too long for them to go back to the easy bickering they had always enjoyed.

"Want a drink?" was all Daryl could muster. Rick nodded.

"Just juice or something, I'm driving."

Daryl poured him a glass of apple juice. Rick smiled as he set the glass down.

"You remembered I prefer it to orange."

Daryl shrugged, and lit a cigarette.

"You smoke a lot more than you used to," Rick observed.

"Yeah well you talk a lot more than you used to," Daryl retorted. "An' it's mostly bullshit."

Daryl watched as Rick slowly began to smirk.

"Asshole," Rick said in a low, teasing voice.

" _Douchebag_ ," Daryl replied. Rick's smirk turned into a grin, and Daryl noticed how his eyes crinkled up at the sides a little. That smile was still the same as it had been when they were 13, and Daryl dug his fingernails into his palm. _Don't feel anything._

Rick coughed and drained the rest of his juice.

"I feel like we have so much to talk about that it would be impossible to know where or how to begin," he said. "It's... been too long."

"Yup, it has."

"You were right about Shane all along," Rick admitted with a wan smile. "You never liked him, even back when we were kids."

"He never liked me neither. Bet he's fuckin' lovin' this."

"He knows that if he says anything, I'll spill about him and Lori. And she won't want that. Not for her parents, or for Carl."

"Sprocket okay?" Daryl asked, hesitant. "Ya gettin' ta see him?"

"He's young enough that his parents living apart will soon seem normal." Rick stared at Daryl, those blue eyes penetrating. "I'm seeing a lawyer soon, making sure that I get to see him as often as possible. I don't give a shit about anything else, I just don't want my son growing up without me being the biggest presence in his life that I can possibly be. There would be nothing worse in the world. I can't lose him, not when I lost you, and losing you was..."

"Stop right there, Rick," Daryl suddenly felt scared. This was all too much, too soon. It had been over 3 years, and the fact that Rick was now sitting in front of him as a single man was overwhelming. "Tonight ain't about any of that, so keep yer trap shut about it all. Times have changed. You have, I have."

"I know that. But I want to _know_ you again, and I don't think that's wrong," Rick said firmly.

Daryl couldn't think of anything snarky to say, for once. Rick was right – Daryl felt like the tension he always held in his shoulders had eased, like the hollow feeling in his stomach that he had was filling up, like his brain and heart were finally telling him _enough_ , _enough_. And Rick, he had changed. He seemed harder – marriage and age had made him that way, but he was more confident and forthright. It suited him.

"Seems like we could maybe be buddies again some way down the line," Daryl offered. "We know the ship has sailed about all that other stuff with us. 'Specially now, right?"

"Right," Rick nodded quickly.

"An' you'll make things right with Sprocket. Yer a good dad, can tell."

"Thank you, Daryl." Rick flashed a glance at his watch. "I'm going to head – Dad wants to take me to the movies tonight, take my mind off things." He looked nervous as he spoke. "It was good speaking to you. Great, actually."

"You too. But Rick?"

"Yes?"

"One word from Walsh's mouth, an' I'll kill him," Daryl's face was stony. "No hesitation."

When Rick left, Michonne tiptoed back into the kitchen, an anxious expression on her face. She found Daryl sitting down, running his index finger through the flame of his lighter.

"I didn't hear any raised voices, so... all good?" Michonne asked.

Daryl felt his face crumple and he took a deep breath as he began to cry.

*

Daryl pulled up at the gas station and hopped off his bike. He needed smokes and beers, maybe a couple of candy bars and some potato chips too. Holing up in his cabin and ignoring everything that had happened until the new season started seemed like a damn good plan.

He was in the magazine aisle when he heard a woman on the other side talking on her mobile.

_"No dad, I told you Carl doesn't like applesauce. Give him the yogurt that's in the fridge. No, not the vanilla, I told you that earlier too. Carl likes the strawberry."_

Daryl blanched. He recognised the voice, even without hearing her talking about the kid. It was Lori, it had to be. He peered over the top of the shelves, watching as she hung up and swore lightly under her breath. Daryl smiled wryly – guess she was henpecking her daddy now instead of her husband. Shane was in for it, if their affair went any further, that was for sure. Prick deserved it. He couldn't help snorting to himself as he picked up a vintage motorcycle magazine and began to scan the Classifieds.

He was nose deep in the magazine when he heard the clicking noise of heels, and there she was, putting several trashy women's monthlies into her basket. From the corner of his eye, he saw her glance at him uninterestedly, then do a double take.

"Jesus Christ," she said under her breath.

Daryl dipped his head down and made to go towards the counter where he could pay for his shit and get out of there, but she blocked his path. She was even skinnier than she used to be, and the same height as him. Olive fuckin' Oyl. She looked at him with an expression of absolute disgust on her thin, pinched face.

" _You_ ," was all she said.

"'M leavin'," Daryl grunted quickly, but she moved to the side to stop him from escaping.

"Too guilty to face me, huh?" Lori said coldly.

"Jus' want ta get my shit an' go," Daryl replied with a shrug. He finally lifted his head to face her properly, realising as he looked into her small, almost-black eyes how much he had always disliked her.

She prodded his chest and Daryl shook his head once, in warning.

 _"_ God _,_ I can't believe he was willing to risk everything for _you,"_ she said, her face ugly with anger. "I'd love to know what you have that he couldn't get from me."

Daryl didn't want to get into a war of words in the middle of a gas station, but he was never one for not being able to bite.

He bit.

"Someone that knows him properly," he snapped back. "An' wanted him fer _him_."

"And a cock?" Lori spat. "That it? Yeah, that must have been all it was, 'cause you sure as hell can't offer anything else. You're rude, bad-tempered, you dress like a hick, you have the social skills of a..."

"Shut that piehole of yours," Daryl told her, trying to keep his voice as low as possible. "Ya weren't ever good fer him. Ya were never nothin' more than a money-grabbin' _cunt_."

Lori momentarily looked taken aback and then cocked her head towards the six-pack of beers in Daryl's hand.

"You going home to drink all of those, Daryl?" she asked in a malicious sing-song voice. "Get wasted all on your own? 'Cause that's what you do, isn't it, you Dixons? Fight and swear and treat people like crap, then drink yourselves away. You like it, don't you, the way booze feels? You want to do it _alll_ day, yeah I know your kind."

Daryl swallowed, her words making him want to crack open one of the beers.

"I fuckin' doubt daddy's little princess knows my kind," he said menacingly. "Ya can stand there in yer designer shit, tellin' me what ya think ya know about my family, but what do ya think yer folks would think if they knew ya were lettin' another man fuck ya behind yer husband's back? Wouldn't be somethin' yer pa would want ta boast about to his rich friends, would it?" Daryl's eyes narrowed and he leant over to whisper into Lori's ear. "Wouldn't be somethin' a lawyer would want ta hear if ya were ta try ta take Rick's kid off him."

"Don't you fucking dare talk about my child."

"Ya know I'm right. An' at the end of the day," Daryl smiled in what he hoped was a victory. "Ain't no-one gonna believe what ya might say 'bout Rick – but they'll all sure as fuck believe what they hear about some whore that only fucks riders."

*

Richard was sitting at the kitchen table nursing a brandy when Rick arrived home. He nodded towards the bottle and extra glass.

"Want to talk about it, son?" he asked.

Rick set down a long, cream-coloured envelope onto the table. On the front were the words _Monroe & Monroe LLP_.

"Ah." Richard poured Rick a glass of brandy, which Rick knocked back, wincing at the unfamilar and unpleasant taste.

"Lori and I agreed terms," he explained, nodding when his dad made to pour him another drink.

"Deanna's the best lawyer in the city, she's handled all my affairs for years," Richard said with a sympathetic smile. "If things get nasty..."

"They won't," Rick replied. "It's in Lori and I's best interests to compromise, let's put it that way." When Richard thankfully didn't question what he meant, Rick continued. "We've agreed a financial settlement."

"I suppose that pompous prick Alan had a say about how much that would be?" Richard raised an eyebrow and gestured jerking off with his hand. Rick laughed in gleeful shock at what his dad was doing, and wondered how much brandy he had had.

"Oh, he did," Rick mused. "Deanna shot him down pretty damn quickly. Lori will get what she needs to live comfortably, Deanna put paid to any demands for more."

Rick picked up the whole bottle of brandy and took a long swig.

"What about the boy?" Richard's voice suddenly sounded choked; Rick knew that it would kill his father not to have his grandson around.

"He's going to live with Lori and me on alternate weeks," Rick explained. "I can take him to races at the weekends even if it's one of her weeks, and in return she gets him on things like Thanksgiving and Christmas. It's not ideal, but..."

Richard smiled with relief.

"It sounds like a good deal, son. Under the circumstances and all. I know you wanted him full time."

"I did. I really did," Rick tucked his chin into his chest, biting down hard on his cheek.

"But you're not an asshole, so you didn't push for it," Richard said kindly.

There was that, Rick thought, and the fact that Lori was more than willing to share custody, given her terror at her father finding out that his angelic little princess had been fucking a man like Shane behind her husband's back. Still, he'd still been shocked that she had consented so easily. He wondered what had made her so agreeable to it all.

"I tried, with her," Rick blurted out. "I really did, Dad."

"I know you did, son. You don't need to explain."

Rick heaved a sob.

"I just feel like I've disappointed you, like I quit when I know it's not what you would have wanted for me."

Richard shook his head and stared at Rick with the steely blue eyes he had inherited.

"I ever tell you about when I told your grandpa I wanted to ride a motorcycle for a living instead of joining the force like he did?"

"No?"

Richard sat back in his chair, staring into his glass.

"He wanted me to be a cop like he was. Just assumed that I would leave school and do the same. Thought that telling me I could be a motorcycle cop would cure my craving for bikes, you know? When I point blank refused, boy, did he flip out. _No son of mine_ , blah blah blah. He came around when I started winning, only a little, but I knew he was still proud, even if he was too stubborn to say so. But I remember that pain, kid. That sick feeling that what I was doing was making my father unhappy. I don't want you ever to feel like that, Rick. I don't want you feeling like I disapprove of whatever path you take in life. So your marriage failed, for this reason or that. Know what I say? So fucking what, Rick. _So fucking what_."

Richard's face was flushed by the time he'd finished speaking.

Rick put a hand at the back of the chair, about to sit down. Instead, he fell to his knees, his forehead resting on his father's thigh. Richard bent down to smooth a hand across Rick's curls, making soothing noises.

Rick cried on his dad's lap like he had as a child after his mom had died.

*

Caesar immediately started to back away the second he opened his front door and saw Daryl Dixon standing there. He was in a vest and boxers, a plate of Chinese take-out in his left hand. As he stumbled backwards along his hallway, the plate fell to the floor and covered the carpet in noodles.

"Daryl, I can explain!" he put a hand out, trying to deter Daryl from striding angrily along the length of the hall, his fist raised.

Daryl yanked Caesar back by the front of his vest, causing the thin grey material to rip.

"Fucking rat," Daryl growled, throwing a punch directly into Caesar's face. He heard a sickening crunch, and then Caesar was dropping to the ground, holding his hands over his face; blood erupting from in between his splayed fingers.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he wailed, as Daryl rained down more punches on him, ending with a sharp kick to Caesar's stomach. Caesar was doubled over on the floor, his arms wrapped around himself as he moved into the foetal position. He was groaning and sobbing, a bloody, beaten mess in his underwear; Chinese food smeared all around him.

Daryl leant back against the wall, breathing heavily. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with the feeling of wanting to cry. Look at what he'd done. He was drunk. He was also angry, scared and fucked up - and he'd taken it out on Caesar.

He took a step forward with the intention of reaching out a hand and helping Caesar up, but Caesar gave a frightened cry, cowering away as if he was scared that Daryl would strike him again.

"Please, no more," he pleaded, as Daryl bent down.

Daryl felt sick as he told Caesar to get up onto his feet. The state he had reduced the man to appalled him.

"I ain't gonna hurt ya again," Daryl said, pointing to the couch. Caesar sat down, his hands shaking and his nose rapidly swelling. Daryl went into the kitchen and found a bag of ice, before getting a towel and some toilet paper from the bathroom.

"Tip yer head forward and pinch yer nose," he said gruffly, wrapping the ice in the towel and motioning for Caesar to take it and press it against his face.

"Had a broken nose before," Caesar said, his voice muffled by the towel. "I know what to do."

"Yeah an' so do I," Daryl gave a rueful nod. "My daddy had about a dozen over the years. Keep that ice on it."

Daryl went back into the kitchen and filled a bowl full of tepid water. He got onto his knees in front of Caesar, gently wiping the blood from his face with damp toilet paper. Soon the water was pale pink with blood, and Daryl felt nauseous with guilt.

Caesar gave a groan as he sat back and asked for some painkillers.

"Man, I'm a piece of shit," Daryl put his hand over his face.

"Yeah, you are," Caesar replied. He put the ice down and looked at Daryl. Daryl winced at how the black bruises were already forming across the bridge of Caesar's nose and under his eyes. He went back to the bathroom to get painkillers, before filling a glass of water and bringing them into the lounge.

"You gonna call the cops? Go ahead, know I deserve it," he said sheepishly.

"No."

"No?"

Caesar gave Daryl a look that was part-frustation, part-hurt.

"What am I going to tell them? You're a god in this city. You think they'd care if Daryl Dixon beat up some fag? Man, they'd probably shake your hand."

"Don't use that fuckin' word," Daryl warned.

Caesar winced as he rubbed his temple.

"I wouldn't say anything even if I _did_ think you'd get in trouble for it. I don't need the hassle and I... well, you're not someone I'd want to see lose everything you've worked for. You know how I feel, Daryl. About you."

"Fuck..." Daryl shook his head. "What the fuck were you thinking, Caesar? Tellin' _Shane_ of all fuckin' people."

"I was _shitfaced_ , Daryl. Didn't know what I was saying. Sure as hell didn't think he'd remember it either, we were both wasted." Caesar sighed. "Anyway, I'm gone, you'll be glad to know. I quit Sanctuary last night. My brother lives out West; he's hooked me up with a mechanic's job at some shop near his house. He knows about me and he's cool with it. Will be good to be close to my nieces and nephews, I guess. They're the only ones in my family who don't care about what I am."

"When're ya goin'?"

Caesar made a _pfft_ noise, and winced.

"Was meant to be tomorrow, but I guess I need to wait until my face heals, huh."

Daryl stood up with a nod.

"'M sorry."

"Me too. About this, and about ever meeting you," Caesar replied coolly.

Daryl took two painkillers from the pack and handed them to Caesar, holding the glass to his lips so Caesar could take a drink. Some of it spilt down Caesar's chin, so Daryl wiped it away with the back of his hand. Caesar's eyes were full of gratitude when he did that, so Daryl looked away quickly and gave a cough.

"Have ta go. Ya take care of yerself, ya hear me. Don't get involved with an asshole like me again, okay?"

"I won't," Caesar replied. "And same to you. Don't feel you're destined to turn into a certain kind of person, Daryl. You're not."

Daryl gave a curt nod before leaving Caesar sitting there, bruised and bloodied. He'd never felt so ashamed.

He was just like his daddy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of tears for the boys in this one, sorry :(
> 
> I'll try to post the next chapter as soon as I possibly can. I'm kind of worried that this fic is too miserable, we've not had much joy along the way. I don't want people to stop reading because it's too bleak :/ (That said, it was immensely satisfying getting to write Daryl call Lori a cunt, heh.)
> 
> Comments appreciated as always, thanks x


	20. 20.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the 2004 US Superbike season progresses, Rick and Daryl get to know one another again – but Shane will affect them in life-changing ways by the end of the year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry that it's been so long since I posted - life is kind of kicking me in the teeth right now and it's left me with hardly any time for writing. Also, as you will see, this chapter is a little longer...
> 
> **Race calendar for the Championship**  
> Woodbury Raceway, Georgia  
> Alexandria Park, Virginia  
> Seattle  
> San Francisco  
> Los Angeles  
> Detroit  
> Memphis  
> Indianapolis  
> New Orleans  
> Houston  
> Savannah  
> Atlanta
> 
> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/  
> I also post updates there about posting times and how far behind I am!

**6 months later**

The large pine kitchen at the ranch hadn't changed much in the years since Daryl had last been in it. There was now a planner on the wall showing which days Rick needed to take Carl to various clubs and classes, and the old wall clock that had never worked had finally been replaced, but asides from that, it was the warm, homely room it had always been.

Despite that, Daryl still felt nervous as he sat down. Richard had invited him over for breakfast, now that he and Rick were something resembling friends again. It was the only good thing that had come out of everything that had happened with Shane.

Richard set a freshly brewed pot of coffee onto the table and sat down, looking to Rick then Daryl, and smiling happily.

"My boys back around my table – this is a good day," he beamed, rubbing his hands as he picked up his knife and fork and set to work on the large ham omelette in front of him.

"A good day is these two eating you out of house and home?" Michonne drawled as she put a bowl of skillet potatoes beside the coffee and sat down to Daryl's right.

"You weren't there for the times we all lived together," Richard chided her with a wink.

Daryl smiled at their good-natured arguing and reached out for some toast. Up at his cabin, breakfast was normally coffee and a cigarette, not freshly squeezed orange juice and pancake stacks swimming in syrup. He rubbed his concave stomach, resisting the urge to burp in polite company. Opposite him, Rick's cheeks were red as he ate happily, making fun of Michonne's post-gym breakfast of soy milk and fruit salad.

"I could be _really_ mean and say that your dad keeps me fit enough without any of this," Michonne retorted, a glint in her eye. Daryl snorted with laughter at the appalled look on Rick's face.

"She got ya good," he grinned, enjoying Rick's discomfort.

"Only 'cause I'm too busy focusing on the race this weekend," Rick said by way of an excuse. He helped himself to more pancakes, and Daryl watched him shove almost half of one into his mouth in one go, chewing happily.

"Heard they've re-surfaced the Alexandria Park track," Michonne commented, eager to discuss the pending race in Virginia. "Could be pretty slippery out there, track's going to be green."

"No racing talk," Richard scolded, but he smiled at Michonne, then winked at her. "My loyalties are too divided these days."

"Thanks a lot, Dad," Rick exclaimed with faux-horror. Daryl looked down at his food, trying to hold in his smile. Sitting here with Richard, Rick and Michonne, he felt happy. Something about the four of them being together like this felt natural; they were the only people who had never judged him.

Rick had won the first race of the season the weekend before, but Daryl was quietly confident. Neither he or Michonne were going to reveal to Richard and Rick just how good they anticipated the Katana bike being at the next race – they were happy to let the two Grimes men believe that Team Greene would have the upper hand.

Rick's mobile phone began to ring, and Daryl noticed his brow furrow as he picked it up to see who it was.

"Excuse me," Rick apologised, wiping his mouth with a napkin before getting up. He walked out of the room as he answered the call, and Daryl saw Richard raise an eyebrow at Michonne as the noise of a raised voice came from the lounge where Rick had gone.

When he came back into the kitchen, Rick looked agitated and his hair was mussed up, like he'd been running his hands through it.

" _Lori_ ," was all he said. Richard folded his arms, sighing. He looked Rick up and down, then across the table at Daryl.

"What say you two boys take two of the bikes and head out to the motocross track like you used to?" he suggested. "Nothing better to clear your head, son. You can tell me what's going on when you get back. Daryl? You agree?"

Daryl nodded.

"Yes sir."

Rick took two tins of Coke from the fridge, and then Daryl followed him out to the garage. Rick didn't speak, just pointed to one of Richard's old motocross bikes. Daryl nodded and started it up, waiting for Rick to do the same with another bike.

They sped along the old familar route to the motocross track where they had spent so many of their days when they were teenagers. Rick zipped ahead, clearly allowing his competitive spirit to take over, and Daryl let him. Something about Rick's demeanour when he'd come back from speaking to Lori told Daryl that he should let Rick win this one, however small a victory it was.

The track was deserted, the grass still dewy; but the orange dirt was rapidly drying in the spring sunshine. They did a few circuits of the track, their feet dragging across the ground as they threw their bikes around each corner. No matter how many races Daryl won, nothing came close to the pure unadulterated joy of hurtling around a little dirt track on a rickety old bike. He could even hear Rick whooping as he almost lost control at a particularly sharp bend.

Rick suddenly stood up on his bike as he rode up to the approach of a large jump. Daryl looked across, and Rick pointed eagerly. He lifted up his visor, the lower half of his face covered in clay, and shouted over.

"Fancy a jump or two, Daryl?"

"Hell yeah," Daryl gave a thumbs up, not caring that Hershel and Michonne would have their asses if they knew that their team's star riders were risking injury by making boneheaded jumps at a motocross track.

Daryl moved to the side and watched as Rick accelerated towards the hill, becoming airborne and landing safely on the other side. He could hear Rick yelling with glee, and swiftly launched his bike over the jump too. They took turns for over an hour, letting their bikes go higher and higher as they remembered all the old tricks of their youth. But that was a time when bones healed a little faster and team bosses didn't exist, and soon Daryl reluctantly made his last jump before joining Rick in sitting on the grass. He wanted to lie down, look up at the sky and stare at the clouds, but he felt oddly vulnerable about lying down beside Rick.

Daryl flinched when Rick handed him his tin of Coke and their fingers touched; since they had started speaking again, Daryl had been keeping a distance. He'd never liked being touched by a person before he'd met Rick, and they had been apart for so long that he had regressed back to being that person who shied away from physical contact.

The fizzing sound of the Coke being opened was followed by Rick's voice, low and stressed-sounding.

"Lori's coming to the race next weekend," he explained, digging his heel into the dirt. "That's why she called. _Just wanted to let you know_ , she said."

"The hell?" Daryl asked as Rick shook his head wearily. Daryl had assumed that now the divorce was finalised, he'd never have to see the former Mrs Lori Grimes ever again. "She workin' as a grid girl again?"

"Nope," Rick replied, his tone sharp and somewhat bitter. "She's going with _Shane_. She said that they're together now, like I give a shit."

"So _don't_ give a shit," Daryl shrugged. "Racetrack's a big place. You don't need ta see her. Ya don't need ta see either of 'em, asides from when ya have ta lap that asshole durin' the race."

"She'll want to see Carl," Rick replied. His face was sad, and his voice was tight-sounding. Daryl hadn't really thought about the long-term effects of divorce; the continued contact Rick had to have with Lori, and the ongoing stress he was going through.

Daryl didn't know what to say, so he stood up, reaching out his hand for Rick to take and pull himself up. It wasn't much in the way of touching, but it was more than Daryl had experienced lately. Rick opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again with a small shake of his head.

"What?" Daryl asked. He looked at Rick through narrowed eyes, noticing the first tiniest, thin line at the side of one of Rick's eyes. Somehow, they'd become grown-up men who had lives that weren't just about riding bikes fast and fucking in secret - and Daryl hadn't even noticed.

"I was just thinking..." Rick began. "You could stay, tonight, if you wanted. At the ranch. Rather than you riding back to your cabin."

"We ain't kids anymore," Daryl replied quickly, his face blushing. Rick's eyes widened in panic.

"No, no, I didn't mean anything by it, Daryl. I meant... we have plenty of rooms, okay, and I thought you might not want to ride all that way home and..."

"29's a bit old for a sleepover," Daryl tried to joke. "But thanks, Grimes."

Rick pulled his helmet on quickly, got onto his bike without a word, and disappeared off into the distance. Daryl could practically sense his embarrassment, but shrugged it off.

They rode quickly back to the ranch, where Michonne was waiting for Daryl to take her home. She kissed Richard goodbye at the front door before putting her own helmet on, and sitting behind Daryl on his bike.

"Ready?" Daryl asked.

Michonne locked her hands around the front of his body by way of an answer, and Daryl sped off down the long pathway that led away from the ranch. In his mirrors, he saw the two Grimes men, standing at the front door, both looking dejected.

*

Rick mashed up a banana in a bowl, pressing the soft flesh of the fruit against the plastic angrily.

"I think you got it," his dad's voice said behind him. Richard crossed his legs and put down his newspaper.

"Carl likes it like this," Rick snapped back, setting the bowl in front of his son. "Right Sprocket?"

" _Sprocket_?" Richard questioned, and Rick felt himself blushing.

"Daryl calls him that sometimes. It suits him, I guess." Rick turned his attention to watching Carl feed himself messily. Fatherly tasks like this kept his feet on the ground before races. Nothing was more important than keeping his child happy, not even winning.

Outside the sanctuary of the team motorhome, he knew there were reporters and photographers just waiting for him to appear. He'd was in pole position for the San Francisco race today, but Rick was all too aware that the only thing anyone wanted to ask him about was the fact that Lori and Shane had gone public with their relationship. She had been on his arm at the past three races, posing for photographs in a Sanctuary baseball cap, and laughing and smiling happily when Shane's fans asked her for a photograph. Life with Shane was suiting her it seemed - she was looking less drawn and pale. Rick didn't miss her, but he missed being half of a partnership.

His mobile beeped and he had a feeling it would be Lori even before he picked it up. He read the text quickly and then looked up at Carl.

"Mommy is here. You want to see her?"

Carl clapped his hands as Rick texted back a short reply. It was only minutes before Lori appeared at the motorhome door, dressed in tight denim shorts and a red Sanctuary t-shirt. Rick only ever saw her when they were picking up or dropping off Carl, and he couldn't help himself from wondering if she was purposely showing up at races to fuck with his head so that Shane would have an advantage on track.

She invited herself into the motorhome and Richard quickly made himself scarce. Rick took a step back as Lori picked up Carl and cooed at him gleefully. She planted kisses onto his pudgy cheeks and handed him a bar of candy.

"He was having a banana," Rick said firmly.

Lori turned towards him, and Rick noticed that she was wearing heavier make-up than she used to, with long fake eyelashes and thick pink lipstick. The kind of look that Shane had always liked.

"The race starts in an hour and a half," Rick hinted, as Lori bounced Carl up and down on her knee. "Could you maybe..."

"I have a right to see my child," Lori replied.

"It's my turn to have him this week," Rick told her through gritted teeth. Carl shouldn't be around this bad atmosphere, but Rick couldn't let Lori just waltz in here and ruin the time he could be spending alone with his son.

"I'm aware of that, Rick," Lori replied, not even looking at him as she pressed kisses against the top of Carl's head. "All I want is half an hour with him after the race." Her voice grew colder. "Do you think you can give me _that_ , considering?"

"Considering what?" Rick asked, his eyes narrowing.

"You've had him all week, God knows _who_ has been in this motorhome. If Dar..."

"Shut up, Lori," Rick heard himself snapping. "Nobody has been in here except for me and Dad. I want Carl to have stability. You think that I'd let anyone in here and disrupt things? You're _low_ , Lori."

Lori put Carl back onto his chair and sniffed.

"I didn't come here to fight with you."

"So don't make comments like that," Rick sighed. He felt exhausted already and he hadn't even raced yet. He put his hands up as if in surrender. "Okay, anything for a quiet life. I'll tell Dad you're going to come get Carl as soon as the last lap ends, okay?" He paused, before adding bitterly. "That way you get to see how Shane does."

"Thank you," Lori said sarcastically. "I appreciate you _permitting_ me to see my child."

She left without another word and Rick put his head in his hands briefly, before taking off his jeans and t-shirt and pulling on his racesuit. The green and black leather made his chest feel even tighter than it already did after Lori's visit.

"Daddy win!" Carl punched his little fists into the air.

"Daddy will try," Rick said tiredly. More and more his decision to retire at the end of the following year looked like the right one. He just wished he had someone other than Hershel and his dad who he could talk to about it. The thought of telling Daryl made him feel strange and he couldn't quite put his finger on why.

Two hours later, Rick was trudging back to the motorhome after a disappointing third place. Shane had just beaten him across the line for second, and it stung. Daryl had won; the Katana bike enjoying the cooler temperatures of the San Francisco track. Rick marvelled at how Daryl never seemed to tire, or suffer from the physical and mental exhaustion that he did now.

_"Rick, did the fact that your ex-wife is seeing one of your major competitors affect your race performance today?"_ a reporter called out to him.

"No," Rick replied firmly, staring straight ahead. Really? It had come to asking him about his private life now? Is that what this circus had become? Rick wanted nothing more than a hot shower and his flight back to Atlanta. He put his head down and tried to ignore the throngs of journalists surrounding him before he had a very major, very public freak-out.

"Good race, Grimes."

Rick felt relief wash over him as he saw Daryl leaning against his motorhome. His hair was still damp with champagne and there was a scowl on his face as he saw the hordes of press following Rick.

"Ain't y'all got someone else ta bother?" he called out. "If Grimes an' me answer some of yer stupid questions will ya fuck off?"

Rick gave Daryl a small nod of thanks as they turned to face the reporters and answer questions about the race. Having Daryl stand beside him made Rick feel calm, like he always used to do. He could hear Daryl snapping at one reporter when they asked him about Shane and Lori.

_"We ain't here to tell ya about personal shit. Not me, not Grimes, an' not even Shane Walsh. We're here ta race an' that's all ya should be askin' us about. Yer meant ta be journalists, not hacks for the fuckin' National Enquirer or some shit."_

"What Dixon means," Rick began, flashing the best winning Grimes-smile that he could. "Is that any other questions you might have can be directed to the press officer at Team Greene, okay? Now if you don't mind, I'd like some food and most importantly, I want to hug my little boy. Have a good evening folks."

The press pack dispersed and soon, Rick and Daryl stood alone.

"Fuckin' charmer," Daryl sneered, but his mouth twitched in a small smile.

"Were you waiting for me, just now?" Rick asked, trying to keep the hope from his voice.

Rick didn't hear Daryl's answer. He heard a child giggle, and turned around to see Carl in the middle of Lori and Shane. They each held one of his hands, and were helping him to jump over a flowerbed. He was laughing and _whee-_ ing as they swung him over. He looked so happy, and Rick was horrified to see that Shane did too.

Rick was aware that Daryl was still standing behind him, watching the whole scene also. He wasn't sure whether to feel comforted by that, or embarrassed. He straightened his body and couldn't help puffing his chest out a little as the three of them approached.

"Daddy!" Carl squealed, running straight into Rick's arms. He was warm, chubby, and smelt like candy floss. Rick looked up at Lori.

"I'll drop him at your place tomorrow evening in time for dinner, okay?"

"Okay," she nodded. "...Thanks," she continued, giving a genuine smile.

"Great kid," Shane said and Rick raised an eyebrow.

"He is. I'll see you tomorrow, Lori."

Rick took Carl's hand and led him up the steps of the motorhome, his face burning as he realised Daryl was following them – in full view of Lori and Shane. He opened the door and went inside quickly.

"Ya alright?" Daryl asked, as soon as the door clicked behind them.

"Yes," Rick replied curtly.

"Well, yer lyin'," Daryl shrugged, taking a bottle of orange juice from the fridge.

Rick quickly made Carl a ham sandwich, adding cookies to the plate and pouring him a glass of milk. Carl sat at the table and ate happily while Rick joined Daryl in the small kitchen. Daryl was helping himself to the rest of the cookies in the pack, and Rick slapped his hand away before taking a cookie himself.

"I mean... already? Already she's letting Carl spend time with Shane?" Rick exclaimed.

Daryl's expression was blank as he shrugged.

"Was only fer a couple minutes, Rick. An' fer all ya know, Shane ain't interested in bein' around a kid. Don't like sayin' this ta ya, but all he cares about is gettin' inside Lori's panties an' if he has to play nice with Carl to do that, well..."

Daryl swallowed and took another cookie. Rick kept his voice low so Carl wouldn't hear.

"I'm his father. Call it stupid fucking male pride or whatever, but I don't like seeing another man with him, playing games and making him laugh."

"Of _course_ yer his daddy," Daryl agreed. "Ya think he won't know that, no matter who is ma is with?" Daryl reassured.

"I just don't want to be the kind of dad that's only around half the time and misses everything," Rick failed to keep the tremor from his voice.

"Bein' a good dad that's only around half the time is better than bein' a bad dad that's around _all_ the time," Daryl stated. "Ya ain't pushin' him around, callin' him names. Ya ain't beatin' him with a belt, or a birch, or yer fists. Not always bein' around don't mean _shit_ if yer doin' it right when ya _are_ there."

Daryl wouldn't meet Rick's gaze. Rick knew better than to press Daryl further about all the things that Will Dixon had done to him as a child.

" _Fuck_ , I've missed you," he heard himself blurt out. "You always talked more sense than anyone else I've ever met, Daryl."

Daryl shoved a cookie into his mouth and threw the now empty packet into the trash. He chewed slowly, acting like he couldn't speak with a mouth full of chocolate chips.

Eventually he swallowed.

"Maybe some time soon ya can come up to the cabin for a visit. Get some burgers or somethin'."

"I'd like that," Rick smiled.

*

"I don't know about anyone else, but I'm starving," Richard announced, rifling through the kitchen drawer for a takeaway menu. He pulled out a sheet of red paper and waved it. "Pizza?"

Rick and Michonne put their hands up by way of answer.

"You paying, dad?" Rick mocked.

Richard smirked.

"I think the winner of the race today should pay. Get your wallet out, Daryl."

Daryl raised his eyebrows.

"With the amount you pigs could eat? Never." He snorted and took out his wallet, more than happy to buy he, Rick, Richard and Michonne some pizzas. They had all just gotten back to the ranch after the short flight home from New Orleans, where Daryl had won. He and Rick were tied now with four race wins each, and until Richard had suggested pizza, they had all been ribbing one another about who was going to win the Championship. Maybe he and Rick should have been less friendly given that they were each other's main rival, but Daryl was happy, sitting in the kitchen and enjoying the lively discussion.

Rick snatched the menu from his dad.

"Is three enough? Or maybe four, seeing as Daryl is such a hog."

"Yeah, an' this hog don't want any olives or pineapple, okay? Ya hear me, Michonne?" Daryl teased.

Michonne tutted and crossed her arms grumpily as everyone began to bicker about what to get.

"You men are useless," she eventually complained. "Get two pepperoni, one chicken barbecue, some garlic bread and some mozzarella sticks. Okay? Any leftovers and I claim them as my breakfast tomorrow."

Richard threw his car keys into the air and caught them.

"I'll go get them, need to get gas anyway." He threw Daryl a quick glance. "Want to give me a hand?"

"Sure," Daryl stood up and followed Richard out to his truck.

They chatted about the race on the way there, Daryl sitting happily in the passenger seat, marvelling as always how Richard spoke to him like he was one of his own; like the type of father Daryl had needed but never had.

"The way you and Rick push one another," Richard enthused, as he pulled into the parking lot of the pizzeria. "Can't tell you how much I'll miss it when it's gone."

"Yer talkin' like it's end..." Daryl's words were interrupted by a groan from Richard.

"Look," Richard pointed at the entrance.

Daryl followed his finger and saw Shane, Lori and Carl walking in; Shane with his arm around Lori's shoulder. They looked like a family.

"We only dropped Carl off at Lori's an hour ago," Richard said sourly. "He should be in bed after being at the track with Rick all weekend."

"Guess they had the same idea as us," Daryl replied, noticing Richard's furrowed brow. "Want me to go in and get the food?"

"If you would, son," Richard nodded. "I just don't want to be near that woman. And as for Walsh... well, my opinion on him has never been lower."

Daryl got out of the car and went into the restaurant to pick up their order. He sure as hell didn't want to see Walsh and Lori either, but he'd sooner be uncomfortable himself than see Richard Grimes put into an awkward position. He leant against the counter as the girl got the order, and looked around when he heard the bathroom door being opened. Shane emerged, leading Carl by the hand. He caught Daryl's eye immediately.

"Must be asshole night at the pizza place," he commented slyly as he walked past.

"Two fer one if you an' her are here," Daryl retorted.

Shane paused, letting Carl's hand go as he turned around.

"Good win today." He looked Daryl up and down with disdain. "Don't get too used to the feeling."

"You leave me the hell alone, Walsh. Go sit down with yer woman."

The girl at the desk called out _"Order for Grimes!"_ and Shane glanced at the large pile of boxes.

"Going back to the ranch? Nice cosy pizza night, huh? You and Rick?"

"None of yer business," Daryl growled.

Shane leant closer, practically hissing in Daryl's ear as he spoke.

"You tell Rick that we have Carl. Tell him that Carl ran into my arms the second he saw me tonight. Tell him that I'm gonna be Carl's new daddy and there ain't nothing he can do to stop it."

"I'll tell him _nuthin',_ " Daryl spat, before being interrupted by a quiet, squeaky voice saying his name. He looked to his side, to see a little blonde-haired girl of around eight holding out a napkin and pen nervously.

"Mr Dixon, could you sign this please?"

"Sure kid, what's yer name?"

"Sophia."

Her face went bright red as Daryl hunkered down to sign his name on the pizzeria's napkin.

"You a fan?" he asked kindly. "Watch the race today, did ya?"

"Yes sir. I was so scared you weren't going to win. Me and my mom had our fingers crossed for you the whole entire time."

"Your mom with ya?" Daryl said, looking over to the corner where a slightly diminutive woman with short grey hair was standing.

"Yes sir."

Shane cleared his throat loudly. Daryl almost bust out laughing as the little girl steadfastly ignored him. The youngest fans were always the most loyal. Her mom gave a small smile, and Daryl whispered into Sophia's ear.

"How about ya get yer mom to tell me yer address an' we'll see if we can't get ya some tickets for the race in Atlanta at the end of the year?"

Sophia burst into tears and threw her thin little arms around Daryl. He felt his face going bright red, so unaccustomed to displays of excitement and affection like that. Was nothing, doing something nice for folks that seemed like good people.

When Sophia pulled away, Daryl saw that Shane was gone. He laughed to himself and waited as Sophia hurriedly told her mom what he had said. The woman came over, holding her hand out to shake his.

"You really don't have to, Mr Dixon," she protested. "An autograph has made her year, let alone anything else."

"Need as many people cheerin' me on as I can get," Daryl replied. "Yer girl an' you are more than welcome. Got an address?"

"Sure," the woman's hands were shaking as she pulled a small white card from her purse. She handed it to Daryl.

" _Peletier Animal Rescue_ ," he read out the business name on the card. "This your place?"

"Sure is. I've been running it since my husband died."

"'M sorry," Daryl said.

"I'm not," she replied quickly. Seeing Daryl's bemused expression, she softened. "I'm Carol, by the way."

"I'll get those tickets sorted for ya," Daryl told her as he lifted the pizzas. "Enjoy yer dinner."

"Thank you Mr Dixon," Carol said. "And if you're ever looking for a pet..."

"I won't be," Daryl said a little too firmly. "...But thanks," he added.

He opened the door to leave, noticing Lori and Shane feeding Carl slices of pizza, the little boy's face covered in sauce.

Daryl wasn't going to tell Rick. He'd get his payback against Walsh on the track.

"What took so long?" Richard asked as Daryl sat down in the car.

"Kid and her mom wanted autographs," he explained.

"A single mom?" Richard winked.

Daryl sank into his seat like an embarrassed teenager.

"Might be good for you, Daryl," Richard persisted. "What with you up in that cabin all alone all of the time."

"'M happy bein' there on my own," Daryl insisted, pretending to fiddle with the car radio. "Better in my own company."

"You and Rick are both 30 next year," Richard chastised, slapping Daryl's hand away from the volume button. "Time to think about settling down."

"Rick already tried, an' look how that turned out," Daryl replied bitterly.

Richard sighed.

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Maybe I'm old-fashioned thinking you young folk all need to get married and have kids these days. Just want to see you and Rick happy, is all. Although, I worry less about whether _you_ are, 'causeI know you'll be alright, Daryl. You got a good head on those shoulders – well, when you don't let that temper of yours get the better of you. But Rick, he _needs_ someone."

Richard's face was earnest as he looked over at Daryl.

"It means a lot to have you back at the ranch all of the time. Never saw Rick so happy as when things were good between you two. Thank you, Daryl. You're good for him."

"'S nothin'," Daryl blushed, beginning to squirm under Richard's gaze.

"It's everything," Richard argued. "And I think Rick's good for you too." He indicated as he began to turn into the long road that led up to the ranch. "You know, you can talk to me about anything, Daryl. Rick's my son so he knows that without me telling him. Maybe you don't. _Anything_. I mean it."

"Pizza will be gettin' cold if you don't put yer foot down," Daryl said, glad that Richard didn't reply.

*

Rick hadn't felt particularly nervous about visiting Daryl's cabin again until he had pulled into the front yard. Stepping out of the truck, the smell of the trees took him back years. Four and a half, to be precise. Rick felt an ache deep in the pit of his stomach as he stood in front of the little house where he had always felt his happiest.

The yard was overgrown again, like it had been when Daryl first inherited it from Will Dixon, and Rick ducked to avoid overhanging tree branches as he walked up the steps to the porch. There were several empty beer bottles rolling about on the wooden slats; some broken, some with cigarette butts in them.

"'S open," a voice called, and Rick gently opened the front door. It creaked loudly, and he noticed that one of the front windows had a crack in it.

Daryl was sitting in his favorite leather armchair, an ashtray teetering precariously on one of the arms. The rest of the lounge was just as messy, with worn shirts and jeans strewn across the couch, and used mugs on the coffee table. It wasn't the warm, sandalwood-scented room that it had once been, and Rick had to move piles of books and old magazines just to find somewhere to sit.

"Shoulda tidied I guess," Daryl said, leaning back in his chair. He looked around, wrinkling his nose. "Don't normally get visitors."

Rick picked up a book that was on the coffee table and opened it.

"None at all?" he queried, looking at the novel. "' _House Made of Dawn'_ ," he read out loud. "I don't think I've heard of it."

"Ya weren't ever one fer readin'," Daryl shrugged. "It's about a man tryin' ta find his place." He took the book from Rick's hands and set it on his lap. "Why ya askin' if I've had visitors?"

It was Rick's turn to shrug, but he felt sheepish. Daryl was staring at him.

"Just wondered..." Rick began. "I mean... did Caesar never come up here?"

Daryl's cheeks heightened in colour as he answered.

"Not that that's any of yer business, but no. He weren't never here an' what's more, he never even knew where I lived. Anythin' else ya want to ask me about him while yer here? Seein' as ya seem so fuckin' interested an' all."

"I didn't mean anything by it," Rick tried to defend himself.

"Sure ya didn't."

Daryl stood up and strode into the kitchen. There was a clatter of plates and glasses, and the sound of the fridge door being opened and then slammed shut. Rick followed Daryl in, seeing uncooked chicken wings, ribs and sausages on the counter.

"Was gonna grill these up," Daryl mumbled. "There's cornbread in that tin, too. If yer stayin'."

"Of course I'm staying," Rick replied.

Daryl set small jars of flour, paprika and cayenne pepper in front of Rick. He pointed.

"Mix that shit up and coat the wings in it. 'Chonne taught me the recipe, before ya make a comment."

Rick did as he was told, enjoying the preparation. Without asking, he put butter, hot sauce and garlic powder into a small saucepan and began to slowly heat it. He could feel Daryl staring at him as he worked.

"Michonne taught Dad too," he explained, and Daryl managed a smile.

"Gonna take the meat out to the grill, bring the sauce out when yer done," he said.

Rick finished cooking quickly, feeling a little more hopeful that Daryl's mood had lifted with the prospect of some well-made, tasty food. He could smell the meat cooking as he walked outside with the bowl of sauce he had made and two beers.

Daryl flipped over the food expertly.

"McDonald's will be callin' any day," he quipped, turning to Rick. Rick busied himself with coating the chicken wings in the sauce, handing the bowl to Daryl when he was done. The silence between them as they worked was, as it always had been, comfortable. Rick knew to let Daryl talk to him in his own time, and he did.

"I was with Caesar when ya were married," Daryl eventually said, picking a sausage straight off the grill and blowing on it. "It ain't any of yer business, but we were never anythin'. Jus' don't come up here actin' like a jealous bitch when _you_ were the one who had a wife an' kid."

Rick just nodded and took a sip of beer. There was a sizzling noise as the meat cooked.

"Ketchup or mustard?" Daryl asked, by way of ending the conversation.

"Ketchup," Rick replied, taking a hot dog bun from the plate.

"That burnt sausage on the end has my name on it," Daryl warned.

Food prepared, they sat down in the grass at the back of the cabin, enjoying the barbecue and conversation. Rick lifted his head to the sun, letting the last rays of the day beat down onto his face.

"Reminds me of that time we went campin', years ago," Daryl said wistfully.

"What does?" Rick asked.

"You. Lettin' the sun burn yer forehead and not carin'," Daryl laughed. "Cookin' like the meat."

Daryl's laugh was husky, and Rick joined in. Looking at the smoke coming out of the cabin's chimney, and hearing the rustle of branches in the evening breeze, he felt content in a way he hadn't since before he had gotten together with Lori.

"I missed this place," he told Daryl.

"Well, I missed havin' ya in it." Daryl lit a cigarette and then lay back, resting on his elbows. Rick breathed in. No matter how unpleasant he found cigarette smoke normally, when it was Daryl's he found it comforting.

"Know what it needs though?" Rick began tentatively.

"A clean?" Daryl raised an eyebrow.

Rick laughed and shook his head.

"A _dog_ , Daryl."

Daryl took a long drag, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

"Nuh-uh, not yet. Not ever. Ain't goin' through that again."

His face reddened, and Rick could see he was tearing up.

"You loved Jack," Rick told him softly. "I did too, and I know it sucks – we lost lots of animals at the ranch over the years. But this place doesn't feel right without one."

"I don't make the same mistake twice," Daryl retorted. "I ain't talkin' about this, Rick." He flicked his cigarette butt into the air.

Rick changed the subject to the race in Houston he had just won. Racing chat was easy; something that they didn't argue about anymore. They talked about everything except _them_.

Eventually, Rick followed Daryl back inside, where he gathered up the mess that was littering the couch, and dumped it in the spare room. With the light dimming outside, and the fire crackling, the lounge almost looked like it used to.

"Want a beer?" Daryl asked.

Rick shook his head.

"Not with the drive home. You go on, though."

Daryl got a bottle from the fridge, opening it with the heel of his hand against the kitchen worktop. The cap felt to the floor with a clink, and Daryl let it lie there.

"You still buying too many old bikes?" Rick asked, slumping down onto the couch.

"Yup," Daryl nodded, sitting back into the leather armchair. Rick couldn't stop himself from thinking how Daryl's father had probably always done the same thing – sat in an old worn chair, drinking and smoking until he fell asleep.

"Still got Dad's old Triumph?"

"Yup," Daryl repeated, looking up at Rick before speaking softly. "Wouldn't ever get rid of it."

"Why not?" Rick swallowed, his mouth becoming dry at the odd change of atmosphere in the room.

Daryl coughed and shifted in his seat. His eyes looked downwards as he answered.

"Same reason I don't ride it no more. Reminds me of ya, is all."

Rick's chest tightened and he gripped onto the side of the couch, knuckles whitening as he stopped himself from getting up and crossing the room to where Daryl was sitting. The mood was still strange and loaded with tension and things unsaid.

Rick idly picked at a ragnail as he began to speak.

"Why didn't you tell me that you saw Carl with Shane and Lori, the night you and dad went to get the pizza?"

Daryl looked up in surprise.

"Was no point in tellin' ya. It was nothin'. They jus' took the kid out for dinner. How d'ya..."

"Dad told me," Rick explained. "Took me a while to get it out of him, but I knew there was a reason he got home in a strange mood that night."

"Ya mad I never said?"

Rick shook his head.

"No. I know you kept it to yourself for the right reasons. Thank you."

Daryl shrugged.

"Don't want ta see ya hurtin'."

They talked until Daryl began to slur and light his cigarettes the wrong way around.

"I think it's bedtime," Rick commented as he stood up. "Better go or I might fall asleep on the way home."

"Ya droppin' hints?" Daryl asked, emboldened by booze.

Rick didn't answer as he stood up and got his keys from his pocket. Daryl got off his chair and followed Rick to the door.

Rick hovered at the doorway, gazing at Daryl. Christ, his strange, angular face was beautiful. Age had sharpened his cheekbones and made his eyes even more hooded and cat-like. Rick knew he'd never see anyone else that looked quite the way that Daryl did.

"What?" Daryl asked quietly. "Yer starin' at me."

"I know," Rick replied, reaching out a hand and smoothing a tendril of dark blond hair away from his temple. "It's just, I want to..."

Rick moved in, lips pursed, gently brushing them against Daryl's mouth.

Daryl backed away.

"Nuh-uh, not yet," he said.

"Oh," Rick felt crestfallen; embarrassed. "I thought... I mean, we've been _good_ , haven't we?"

"As friends we have," Daryl replied. "An' I ain't sayin' _never_ – but I _can't_ , Rick. I like knowin' ya again but too much has happened."

Rick took a step back, rubbing his nose and ignoring the sting in his eyes.

"I get it, Daryl."

"We got plenty of time, Rick. Both have another good few years of racin' left in us. Let's just wait an' see. Ya can do that, can't ya?"

Rick looked into Daryl's grey-blue eyes, thinking about his retirement being less than a year and a half away. Thinking about how he hadn't had the balls to tell Daryl.

"Of course," he lied.

*

"Reservation for Grimes," Rick told the receptionist of the plush Savannah hotel he was checking into.

She looked at her computer, then shyly up at Rick. He was used to women batting their eyelashes at him now that it was known that he was divorced, but he couldn't have been less interested.

"It says that there's a single room supplement to pay, sir," she squeaked, her voice sounding breathless. "I assume that's _our_ mistake, I am so sorry."

"No, no," Rick told her, pulling his credit card from his brown leather wallet. "That's correct."

The girl smiled with alarmingly white teeth as she took the card from him.

"Put it all on my card please," he told her, trying to ignore the admiring glances of her fellow staff.

"Of course," she beamed. "And if there's anything you need throughout your stay, I'm more than happy to assist. Just call reception and ask for Tammy, okay?"

"Okay," Rick nodded, barely looking her in the eye.

"Anything at all!" she reiterated. "Can sure get lonely staying in a hotel alone, so I'm right here if you need anything."

"I won't," Rick replied, before adding a softer word of thanks.

He trudged up to his room, thinking about the weekend's racing ahead. He was leading the Championship by only a few points after his win in Houston, and he was hoping to extend that lead with another victory. He knew that Daryl was going to be hard to beat. Shane, too.

As he threw his holdall onto the bed, he thought about how the flirtatious receptionist had been right – it _could_ get lonely staying in a hotel room alone. Carl had a cold and Lori had insisted he not fly, and Rick's dad was with Michonne.

Rick briefly thought about texting Daryl, but he was too wary about anyone seeing Daryl go into his hotel room. He was almost too scared to speak to Daryl at all in front of anyone, in case Shane had ever opened his big mouth.

He checked his mobile – there was a text from Hershel letting him know there was a team meeting at 7pm, five texts from the team's PR girl telling him about various interviews he had to do, and one from Lori telling him the hours in which she would be available for Rick to call her. She'd chosen to stay home too this weekend so she could play nursemaid to Carl. Rick checked his watch and reluctantly rang her.

"Did you give Carl shellfish?" she shrieked on the other end of the line, not even saying hello.

"No," Rick sighed.

"Well he's had _something_ ," Lori insisted. "He's been wheezing and his nose is running, like he's having an allergic reaction or something."

"He has a cold, Lori. Those are pretty well-known symptoms of one."

"Don't act like a sarcastic asshole with me, Rick. This is about our child. I mean, Shane knows not to give him shellfish so I don't see why his own father doesn't kn..."

"Oh, go fuck yourself," Rick spat, hanging up. He instantly regretted it, and slapped his own forehead. Bang went his chance of getting to talk to Carl on the phone today. Lori was just waiting for him to fuck up, or slight her in some way, so she could get one up on him.

Rick paced the floor angrily, feeling the rage turn to ice-cold panic in his chest. He didn't need this before an important race weekend. He couldn't lose the race. He couldn't lose Carl. What if he lost both? What if he lost Daryl too?

Rick stumbled as he walked to the bathroom, gripping onto the towel rail to steady himself. He splashed water onto his face, trying to stop the intrusive thoughts swimming around his brain. It was Lori, she made him feel like this. So did stupid fucking racing. And the need, Christ, the need for Daryl. Daryl who wouldn't kiss him. Daryl who had said _not yet._

There was suddenly a loud hammering at the door. Rick wasn't expecting anyone, and as much as he hoped it was Daryl, he knew that Daryl would never knock so loudly and obviously.

Rick opened the door to find a furious Shane on the other side. He barged into Rick's room, immediately pointing angrily. Rick could swear there was steam coming out of his ears.

"The fuck you say to Lori earlier?"

"I don't see how that's any of your business," Rick replied coolly.

Shane edged forward, bullish and a picture of swaggering arrogance.

"It's my damn business when she calls _me_ afterwards, crying and saying you treated her like shit."

Rick shrugged.

"Lori's emotional wellbeing isn't my problem anymore, Shane," he said nonchalantly. "Go deal with it yourself and leave me out of it."

"No man, I want to know what the hell you said to her to upset her so much."

"It was over Carl – so that's none of your fucking concern," Rick said firmly, his irritation in danger of boiling over into anger.

"Oh, the boy is my concern too, now, Rick."

"I think you're wrong."

Shane snorted.

"He's Lori's child and I'm her partner – so that gives me a say in what goes on between you and her when it comes to Carl too."

"It really doesn't..."

"He's a great kid," Shane cocked his head to the side. "Imagine if he knew that his daddy got fucked by other men. Or is it _you_ that does the fucking? 'Cause if it's Dixon, man, I hope you wear a rubber. Jesus, Rick - what would your mom say if she knew what her son had turned into?"

Rick took a step towards Shane. His fingers twitched, itching to commit an act of violence.

"One more word about my mom and I'll rip the head off your shoulders, Shane," Rick warned, his voice as controlled as it could be.

"Your kind couldn't do _shit_ to a real man," Shane waved a hand as if dismissing Rick.

"Real men steal other people's wives, do they?"

"Don't act like I didn't do you a fucking favour. And I'm what she _needs_ ; Carl too. Carl needs a _real_ man for a father."

"You need to leave, Shane," Rick seethed. "For your own personal safety."

Shane left, throwing Rick a smug sneer as he did. Rick rubbed his hands up and down his face, trying to make himself calm down. He felt fuelled by anger and hatred; that out of control rage practically making his body vibrate.

*

Daryl took his earphones out after listening to his pre-race playlist. In front of him, his chief mechanic, Dwight, was on his knees making the final tweaks to the bike. It was an hour before the final race of the season, and Daryl was hiding at the back of the garage so he wouldn't have to deal with well-wishers and press.

Rick had been in a strange mood since Savannah. Daryl didn't know what had been going on with him, but he'd been uncharacteristically slow in the race, and come in third, over ten seconds behind Daryl, who'd been second. Shane had won, in a cockier mood than normal.

It had left Daryl only a few points ahead in the Championship – either he or Rick could take the title today, like so many times before. Daryl watched as Dwight stood up, wiping the oil from his thin hands, and smiling.

"She's good to go, boss."

Daryl gave Dwight's shoulder a light punch. He liked the scrawny, surly mechanic; they were so similar in a lot of ways.

"Think she'll get me through the first turn ahead of everyone else?"

Dwight nodded, rubbing a small smudge from the tank with the sleeve of his shirt. The dark purple metal gleamed.

"She's in such good shape she'd take you to the fucking moon."

"That's what I like to hear," a voice said, and Daryl smiled as he saw Michonne walk in. She shook Dwight's hand before planting a kiss on Daryl's cheek.

"Big bonus in this for you if we win today," she told Dwight. "You and your wife will finally get that vacation you want so much."

She turned back to Daryl.

"You okay?"

"Course I am," Daryl replied. "Got pole position; ain't gonna let any of those other assholes get past me. Jus' a formality, 'Chonne. You'll be knockin' back tequilas tonight, promise."

"Only promise I want is that you get round there safely," Michonne told him firmly. "We'll do the sums once you cross the finish line. You can take the Championship with just a podium – Rick _has_ to win the race. Remember that before you take any risks."

Daryl led Michonne to the corner, looking around to make sure no-one was listening.

"Ya see Rick when ya were at the ranch this morning?"

"Yeah," Michonne nodded.

"He alright?" Daryl remembered all too well how Rick could get sometimes – that old bug in his brain, telling him shit, making him freak out.

Michonne squeezed Daryl's arm.

"He was... tired, maybe. I think you're better placed to win this today, Daryl. And I'm not saying that as your boss; I'm saying it as someone who cares about Rick too."

Daryl chewed the inside of his cheek.

"He in his motorhome?"

Michonne raised an eyebrow.

"Daryl... "

"Jus' want ta see if he's doin' okay. Ya ain't seen him the way I have."

Michonne folded her arms and shook her head.

"This time, I _am_ speaking as your boss. You're less than an hour away from a Championship-deciding race. I'm not letting you go see your main rival, no matter who he is."

Daryl stared at her, equally stubborn.

"I won't be long." He paused. "...an' he's yer boyfriend's son."

Michonne rubbed her forehead wearily and sighed.

"Just make sure I see your ass on the grid in 20 minutes, okay? Safe racing, Dixon."

She hugged him closely, whispering a thank you in his ear as she pulled away. Daryl wiped his nose and shrugged her off.

"Don't be gettin' soppy on me. Don't suit ya."

Daryl jogged out of the garage, diving left and right to avoid the crowds and journalists. It was only a few yards to the long row of team motorhomes. Daryl headed for the one with the large black and green flag billowing from the top of it, and sprinted up the steps. He hammered at the door, calling Rick's name.

" _Grimes_ ," he repeated. "It's only me."

Rick opened the door a sliver, just enough for Daryl to sidestep inside. Jesus, Rick looked terrible – stressed and anxious. He was wearing his race leathers, but his boots were lying on the floor, and his helmet wasn't even out of its bag.

"We gotta get ya to yer garage," Daryl insisted, but Rick sat down onto the bed, putting his head in his hands.

"I can't. I don't want to."

Daryl picked up Rick's boots and knelt down in front of him.

"Ya can," he said. "First step is gettin' these on. Stop bein' a prick."

Rick allowed Daryl to lift his foot up, before holding it steady so Daryl could pull the boot on.

"Other one," Daryl told him, doing the same with the second boot. He stayed kneeling, looking up at Rick. "Ya have ta get up, Rick. Time ta get goin'."

Their eyes met, and Daryl saw that Rick's eyes were reddened and watery.

"You're always saving me," he said huskily, beginning to reach out a hand to touch Daryl's face, then seemed to think better of it.

"Ain't," Daryl argued. "Racin' would just be borin' without ya. Have ta have some competition or it's just me goin' around in a circle. What's the deal, Grimes? Ain't seen ya like this in years."

"Lori's in the Sanctuary garage with Carl. I'm losing him, Daryl."

"Ya ain't."

"She has him wearing a fucking Sanctuary t-shirt, like he's Shane's or something. I dunno..." Rick bit his lip. "Maybe he is."

Daryl grabbed Rick's shoulder and gave it a soft push.

"Now yer jus' talkin' shit. One look at that kid an' ya know it's yours. Got those fuckin' blue Grimes eyes. Fuckin' shut up with that kind of thinkin'."

Rick began to nod, his breathing easing.

"That's right," Daryl encouraged him. "Jus' keep breathin', nice an' slow like that. Best way to show that asshole Shane who's boss is on track, Rick. Show yer little boy who the best rider is."

"You," Rick smiled wanly, but he nodded again, more firmly this time. "Sometimes," he began, "I just find all of it so fucking hard." He tapped the side of his head. "Up here."

Daryl's heart was racing; he'd seen this too many times over the years with Rick. Apart from the times they had been something to one another – that had always seemed to be when Rick was at his steadiest.

"Know ya do," Daryl soothed. "I'm here for ya though. Me an' yer bike. C'mon, ya know once ya get on it, all this shit in yer head will clear. Get up, Grimes."

Daryl got to his feet, grabbing onto Rick's hand as Rick finally stood up. Rick took a deep breath, gripping Daryl's arm and giving a nod.

"Thank you."

Daryl didn't reply, his mouth becoming dry with the way Rick's gaze was lingering on him. He felt hot, too hot. He was worried about Rick, eager to get his bike onto the track, and confused as fuck.

"We're good again, ain't we, Grimes?" he heard himself saying, picking up Rick's hand and making sure it wasn't shaking anymore. It wasn't.

"Yes," was all Rick said.

Daryl realised he was now trembling more than Rick had been. The past few months, he'd felt that hollow sadness inside of him gradually lessen as he'd spent more time with Rick again. Becoming his friend once more; realising that all the things he'd loved about Rick once were still there. Their bond transcended everything and everyone else that had come along – Lori, Caesar, all the shit with Shane.

He tucked his chin against his chest, pursing his lips to stop them from quivering.

"Jus' want ya to be okay," he managed to say gruffly.

Rick gave a sob, taking Daryl's face in his hands and pressing his lips against his. Daryl stood stock-still, wanting so much to get lost in the kiss, to open his mouth and let Rick slide his tongue against his. But he was scared of where that might lead. He wanted it, so fucking much, but he wasn't ready. Neither of them were.

He moved his head slightly, letting his thin lips rest against the side of Rick's mouth.

"Later," he reassured Rick, aware that this was the second time he'd backed away from a kiss. "We gotta talk, Grimes. I want ya to kiss me, I do. But all of this gotta wait 'til after the race."

*

Rick wanted nothing more than to be off this shitheap of a bike and back at the ranch with Daryl. He was lying in third place, with at least four other bikes close on his tail. That old wrist injury was bothering him today, making it hard to hold onto the handlebars without his hand feeling sore and stiff. Every time he went around a bend, a sharp pain stabbed through his forearm, and it was taking all of his strength to even continue for the remaining three laps.

He was just about keeping up with Shane and Daryl, who had been tussling for the lead the entire race. He could see them trading places at least three times every lap, the crowd going absolutely bananas at this grandstand end to the season. Rick glanced up at the big screen as he sped past it, seeing Shane dive down the inside of Daryl's bike. They almost clashed, and the crowd _oooh_ -ed so loud that Rick could hear them above the roar of engines.

A rider behind him tried to get past, but Rick managed to evade them, barrelling around a corner and picking up some speed on the long straight. He was focusing on the battle in front of him as much as he was his own race, swearing inside his helmet as the red Sanctuary bike darted on either side of the purple and silver Katana. Rick knew that Daryl could handle the way Shane was trying to fuck with him, but he didn't trust Shane to not to make a mistake and send both himself _and_ Daryl into the gravel.

_Carl needs a real man for a father_

Fucking Shane, Rick seethed, taking a corner more recklessly than he had been the whole race. Anger was flowing through his veins, feeling like it was burning him, making him faster and faster.

_Imagine if he knew his daddy was fucking other men_

Godammit, Rick might not get past Daryl to win the race, but he could try his damndest to get past Shane. If he could make up even half a second on this lap, he might get right onto the back of the Sanctuary bike. He could see Shane moving this way and that, edging past Daryl only to fall back again when Daryl got the better of him. Even with his own bike to concentrate on, Rick marvelled at the control Daryl had; he was an artist. Shane tried to overtake on the inside again, and Rick held his breath as he watched the red bike wobble a little before Shane managed to recover. Rick could get him. He could.

_He'd be better off if me and Lori brought him up and you know it_

Rick gritted his teeth through the pain as he rode straight up to the back of Shane's bike. He was close enough to see the grooves on Shane's rear tyre, see the way it had badly worn away due to his constant attempts to get past Daryl. He was planning an attack on Shane, one swift overtake around the outside and he could be in second place, but then Rick decided against it, hanging back a little. Shane was being so erratic in his desperate attempt to take the lead that he could fuck this up all on his own.

~

Daryl was grinning to himself as he glanced around quickly and saw Rick's black and green bike right behind he and Shane. That crazy asshole always had to be in the thick of the drama. If only it had been the two of them who had been fighting for the lead the whole race, and not Shane the prick Walsh. There was only a lap and a half left now, and if Daryl stayed in first position, he'd win both the race and the Championship. He knew that Rick being so close would be distracting Shane, making him focus on keeping his second position rather than trying to take the lead. Daryl knew he was in a pretty damn good position. He smirked inside his helmet as he imagined how much Michonne's hands must be shaking right now, and how she would be pacing the garage floor, swearing and praying.

There was a flash of red at the corner of Daryl's right eye as Shane tried to get past him on the outside; he'd been trying it in that spot all race, to no avail. Daryl laughed and shouted _Nice try, fucker._

He flew past the biggest grandstand and started the last lap, confident that Shane wouldn't try anything else. Surely Rick would soon be in second place, there was no way that Shane would be able to hold off someone as talented and precise.

Daryl's bike had never felt so good. He was on the verge of another US Championship. He and Rick were friends again. Daryl was about as content as he had ever been.

Merle's voice came into his head, and Daryl's eyes filled with tears.

_Well look at you, little brother! Ain't you done great? That'll show our no-good, kid-beatin' excuse of a daddy, right? Proud of ya, Daryl Dixon. Yer big brother Merle is proud._

Half a lap to go before glory. Daryl began to go around a sweeping, left hand turn; the kind his bike felt smooth as silk on.

There was that flash of red at the corner of his eye again, but on the left hand side this time. Shane was trying to overtake on the inside, a boneheaded move he'd made too many fucking times before. The Sanctuary bike's front tyre clipped Daryl's rear tyre, sending the Katana bike airborne.

Shane's bike wavered, but he stayed on.

Daryl heard his bike and his bones crash against the ground as it landed.

Then nothing.

~

Rick barely stayed on his bike as he watched the carnage unfold in front of him. There was purple and silver debris scattered all over the left hand side of the track, and the crowd were on their feet, staring in horror at the sight of the ambulances making their way down the pitlane. Medics ran across the gravel with a stretcher, and the track PA fell silent.

Shane was picking up speed again, clearly having an easy win in his sights if he could make it to the finish line before the race was stopped due to Daryl's crash. Rick felt like he might vomit inside his helmet, torn between parking up his bike and running to the gravel trap where Daryl's bike had landed. But he would be fine, he would. Daryl was unbreakable, hard as nails, the best on two wheels that anyone had ever seen.

Rick twisted the throttle, speeding up to catch Shane. If Daryl couldn't win this race, then Rick would fucking win it for him. There were two corners left, and Shane's tyres were fucked. He'd be lucky if his bike would go in a straight line, let alone make it around a bend. Rick looked down at his speedometer – he was doing just under 200kph, far quicker than Shane.

He gave a ragged, aching sob as he allowed himself to think about Daryl, and willed himself on. Rick rode alongside the right hand side of Shane, turning his head to glare at the Sanctuary rider. He felt his temper rise as their bikes kept zooming down the main straight, his wrist smarting with pain and his head light with the knowledge that the person he loved could be gravely injured or worse. Shane had to pay. That fucking bastard needed to _pay_. Right now.

_Carl needs a real man for a father Imagine if he knew his daddy was fucking other men He'd be better off if me and Lori brought him up and you know it Carl needs a real man for a father Imagine if he knew his daddy was fucking other men He'd be better off if me and Lori brought him up and you know it Carl needs a real man for a father Imagine if he knew his daddy was fucking other men He'd be better off if me and Lori brought him up and you know it_

Rick edged his bike as close as he could to Shane's, the fairings almost touching. He howled at the agonising stab of pain in his wrist as he stretched out his arm and grabbed onto the brake lever of Shane's bike. As quickly and deliberately as he could, he squeezed it so that the Sanctuary bike faltered. Rick cried out in pain as he wrenched his arm away, riding across the finish line as Shane's bike rapidly wobbled out of control and headed straight into the tyre wall, taking its rider with it.

On the other side of the track, Daryl Dixon lay motionless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooo... that happened.
> 
> What Rick did to Shane has actually happened - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xTTmSxCYHzc   
> It was extremely controversial and probably the worst thing *I* have seen someone do to a rival in bike racing.
> 
> Would love to hear your thoughts as always. Thanks for the comments and for staying so loyal to this fic despite the irregular posting schedule, it means a lot.


	21. 21.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick is left to deal with the fall-out of the race in Atlanta while Daryl faces a very different battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we get onto the chapter, I want to say how overwhelmed I was/am at the response to the last chapter. You guys are awesome, truly. I love discussing the plot with you, and your predictions, and of course our lovely boys. THANK YOU.
> 
> Just a warning for almost constant angst in this one... I promise that there will be brighter moments soon!
> 
>  
> 
> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/  
> I also post updates there about posting times and how far behind I am!

Michonne was screaming. Tears ran down her face as she stood outside the Katana garage, watching the ambulance tear down the pitlane as it rushed Daryl to the hospital. Rick had missed the podium ceremony, abandoning his bike at the Team Greene garage and running to find someone, anyone, that could tell him how bad it was.

Journalists and TV cameramen were flooding the pitlane, trying desperately to be the ones to break the big story, all eager to know if Daryl was dead so they could be the first to announce it. Rick pushed several out of the way in his attempt to get to the Katana garage.

Inside, he watched as his dad wrapped his arms around Michonne, his face paler than Rick had ever seen it. When he noticed Rick, his face fell further and he slowly shook his head. Rick knew that look of disappointment.

Richard called out to Dwight, Daryl's chief mechanic.

"Will you get Michonne a seat and some herbal tea or something? Make sure she calms down."

Dwight took Michonne's arm and led her to the back of the garage, where she sat down, gulping and sobbing. Richard hollered at another mechanic to close the garage door, so that the press couldn't see inside. The second the shutter went down, he turned around to look at Rick, furious.

"What in the name of _hell_ were you thinking?" he spat, his face red.

Rick stepped backwards, alarmed by the enraged expression on his dad's face.

"You could have KILLED Shane!" Richard yelled, prodding his finger into the middle of Rick's chest. Rick backed against the wall, on the verge of bursting into tears. He had expected his dad to put an arm around his shoulder, tell him that Daryl was going to be fine, tell him that everything would work out.

"Look at what he did to Daryl!" Rick's voice trembled as he recalled the sight of Daryl's bike disintegrating.

"You don't retaliate by putting another rider's life in danger, no matter what they did," Richard's eyes were on stalks as he raged. "I've never seen such a disgusting move in all my life in racing, and I'm ASHAMED that it was my own son that did it. I'm disappointed, Rick. I'm so fucking disappointed you wouldn't believe."

Rick pinched the sides of his nose as he dipped his head and began to cry. His dad didn't let up, and Rick wanted to slide down onto the floor and curl up into a ball.

"Hershel is looking for you, you know that?" Richard continued. "All that man has done for our family – for

"But _Daryl_ ," Rick sobbed. "I will, Dad, soon. But I need to get to the hospital first."

Richard's anger seemed to subside slightly, and he put his hands on Rick's shoulders.

"He's in the best place, son. A lot of damage has been done today and you being at the hospital isn't going to fix it. Go see Hershel, I'll take you to the hospital after."

When Rick looked his dad in the eye properly, he could see that Richard had been crying. In the background, he could hear Michonne's sobs easing as Dwight fussed around her.

"I'm scared too," Richard said quietly, squeezing Rick's shoulder. "And I'm angry with you 'cause I don't know how the fuck else to deal with this."

"I _have_ to be with Daryl," Rick said firmly. He could hear the rattle of the garage shutters as reporters tried to hear what was going on inside. They were calling his name, asking him to come out and give interviews. "I can't face this shitstorm, Dad. You know that." He swallowed hard, terrified of the answer to the question he was about to ask. "Is Shane okay?"

Richard nodded grimly.

"Was a heavy hit against the tyre wall, and he'll hurt some tomorrow – but he's up and walking. He's in serious trouble for what he did to Daryl, but you're in worse trouble, Rick. You know you are. You don't grab someone else's brakes and expect there to be no repercussions, you do realise that, don't you? You could have been hurt too."

Rick rubbed his temple and tried to ignore the churning feeling in his stomach. He didn't want to think about how much shit he was in. He just wanted to know that Daryl wasn't dead.

"I'm going to the hospital." Rick cocked his head to the side and met his father's equally cold blue gaze. "The rest can wait."

Richard sighed and looked over at Michonne, who was now talking on her mobile. He began to slowly nod.

"Going to be tough getting you out of here in one piece."

Dwight overheard, leaving Michonne's side and taking a small bunch of keys from his pocket. He held them up, joining Rick's side.

"I came here on my bike," he said. "Rick could hop onto the back with my spare helmet on. I'll take him there, no-one will give a shit if they see _me_ leaving, and no-one needs to know who's on the back."

Rick looked at his dad once more. Richard nodded.

"Go. I'll take care of things with Hershel." His voice wavered. "You tell Daryl Dixon not to _dare_ leave us."

*

_This race was never-ending. Every time Daryl managed to fight his way to the front, something would happen to his bike, and he'd fall right to the back again. He felt like he was climbing uphill, like his wheels were turning slowly through metres of mud. His chest was tight and his helmet felt like it was squeezing his very brain from his head. He couldn't see very far in the distance, the bikes in front of him smaller than dots as he tried once more to get back to first position._

_"Ain't gonna win this one, little bro."_

_"Shut up, Merle. I'm doin' the best I can."_

_"Nah, you're too far behind. Ain't that Rick up ahead?"_

_"Yeah, so?"_

_"He's too far away. Ain't gonna be side by side with him. He's too good for ya."_

_Daryl twisted the throttle, willing the bike to keep going. Instead it faltered, spluttering as its engine began to give up. It ground to a halt, and Daryl was left standing at the side of the racetrack, watching everyone else go past. On the next lap, he waved his arms at Rick, trying to flag him down, but Rick didn't see him._

_"He ain't stoppin', kiddo."_

_"Shut up, Merle! How many times do I have ta fuckin' tell ya. Tryin' ta concentrate here."_

_"What's the point, bro? Those assholes think they're better than ya. Always have. This ain't yer world, ridin' those big expensive bikes. An' all that money yer makin'? What've ya spent it on? A load a' old bikes that ya don't need 'cause the only one ya want is my old Triumph. Yeah, I know ya been lookin' an' lookin' fer it. It's gone, little bro. Gone. Just like you."_

_"Yer wrong, Merle. I belong here, racin'."_

_"Don't lie to me, lil' D. Ya belong with yer big brother Merle, an' our daddy. Like the good old days."_

_"Those days weren't good."_

_"Oh now c'mon. Yer prob'ly rememberin' them as worse than they were. He took us huntin' didn't he? Taught us how to ride? Remember we used ta sneak sips of his Jim Beam when he wasn't lookin'? An' I know ya got the taste fer that, little bro. Oh I see ya. I know."_

_"'S better now, Merle, without him. Got good people by my side."_

_"Pfft. Like who? The Grimes? Yer boss, Michonne? They all look down on the likes of us, ya know it. Yer their charity case. Yer there reason ta feel good about themselves when they lay their head ta go ta sleep."_

_"Yer wrong."_

_"C'mon. Don't stand there watchin' the bikes go by. Don't ya feel tired? Yer tired, I know it. Come with me. Come with yer big bro Merle."_

_Daryl looked down at his feet. Instead of seeing his motorcycle boots, his feet were bare. The racetrack had disappeared and he was in a white room; so bright it hurt his eyes._

_"I want ta sleep, Merle."_

_"So sleep. Jus' lie down. Merle will take care of ya."_

*

Rick held Daryl's hand in his as the machines in the hospital room beeped and whirred. Daryl looked so thin and small as he lay unconscious in the bed, covered in tubes and wires. A bandage covered his right eye, and both his legs were in plaster.

He was alive, which was enough for Rick for now. Alive was more than he had hoped for an hour before – but that didn't mean that it wasn't tearing him apart to see Daryl lying there, broken, helpless and in a coma.

Keep talking, that's what the nurses had told him. They didn't know if Daryl would hear him, but it was worth a try. Rick didn't know what to say anyway; neither he or Daryl had ever been big talkers.

The doctor had told him that Daryl had two fractured knees, broken vertabrae in his lower back, and a fractured skull. Debris from his bike had hit his helmet hard, smashing the visor, and injuring the right hand side of his face. Rick was too frightened to ask what exactly the injuries would mean for Daryl when he woke up.

If he woke up.

Dwight was in the corridor outside. He'd gotten Rick to the hospital without any of the crowds at the track suspecting a thing, and was now standing guard in case any fans or journalists tried to get into the room. Rick felt reassured by seeing his skinny frame outside the window; Dwight was okay, a lot like Daryl in many ways.

Rick held Daryl's hand up to his forehead. He could feel the bones, the thin skin. A hand that had been on his body so many times was now limp and cold, and Daryl's face was bloody and swollen beyond all recognition. Rick didn't think he'd ever forget the pattern on the gown Daryl was wearing. As he sat by his side, Rick realised he'd never felt so shivery. His thighs were shaking and his head felt so light that it was as if he was floating above both their bodies. Daryl wouldn't want to be lying here like this, he'd rather be dead; Rick knew that. _Most people come out of comas within days_ , the staff had told him. It didn't mean shit if Daryl couldn't live a normal life afterwards.

Rick bowed his head, letting the tears he'd been holding in finally fall.

"You asshole," he told an unresponsive Daryl. "Getting yourself into a mess like this. And I know it was all Shane's fault, but Daryl, you've no fucking idea the trouble I've gotten myself into. Probably going to be disqualified – or worse. But I don't care, you know? I just care about you waking up. Please wake up. Please. _Please_. Because Daryl, I never told you and I should have – I lo..."

A gentle knock at the door interrupted Rick's words, and he turned to see his dad entering the room. Richard sat down in the white plastic chair beside Rick, putting a comforting arm around his shoulder. He rubbed Rick's back like he had when Rick had been ill as a child, and for the first time that day, Rick felt comforted.

"This is the day I always dreaded," Richard said solemnly. "Seeing one of you two lying here like this."

"It's the skull fracture they're most concerned about," Rick said flatly. "He took a hit to the head. His knees and back they can at least help heal, and there's no spinal injuries, but..."

His voice caught in his throat, and he sobbed on his dad's shoulder for a few moments before Richard pulled away.

"I know it's not the time nor the place, but I need to speak to you about what happened with Shane," Richard said tentatively.

Rick looked at Daryl, his messy, damp blond hair, and his gaunt cheekbones, and realised that racing didn't matter.

"Just tell me," he sighed.

Richard cleared his throat.

"They've disqualified you from the race. You crossed the finish line first, but your win has been taken away. Daryl and Shane didn't finish the race so neither of them scored points. It means that the points before the race began still stand."

"And that means..."

"Daryl was leading the Championship going into this weekend. He's Champion again."

Rick noticed how his dad's voice was shaking badly.

"That's not all," Richard continued. "Because of what you did to Shane, you've had all of your points for the season docked, and you've been banned for the first five races of next year. Got a huge fine to pay as well for bringing the sport into disrepute." He shook his head. "I got to say, Rick, I think they've let you off easy. Hershel wants to see you in his office at 8am tomorrow morning to discuss what happens next."

"I'm not going," Rick replied. "I need to be here for when Daryl wakes up."

"No, you don't," Richard stated. "I know this is a shitty, shitty situation, but you _need_ to see your boss before you make things worse. Being banned for five races is probably a better outcome than you deserve. If your last name wasn't Grimes..."

"It doesn't matter what the outcome is," Rick shrugged. "I'm not coming back, Dad. I quit."

Richard's mouth fell open with shock.

"You have a contract for next season."

"I'll buy it out," Richard shrugged, gripping onto Daryl's hand. "I only had one year left anyway, Hershel will understand."

Richard didn't reply, just sat looking sadly at Daryl.

"Right now, if truth be told, I'd be happy never to see you on a motorcycle again," he said quietly. He touched Daryl's arm lightly before taking a handkerchief from his pocket and blowing his nose loudly. "Why don't you get Dwight to take you home? Carl's with Lori's parents, you can get a shower and some sleep and come back later."

Rick reluctantly nodded, aware he was still in his race leathers. He touched the side of Daryl's face lightly as he stood up, wincing at the lack of response.

"I'll see you soon," he said, closing the room door gently behind him. When he looked back through the small window, he saw his dad with his head bowed, crying.

*

Rick had gone back to the hospital after a few hours, to find Daryl the same way. He'd avoided the television news when he got back home, knowing that the events of the race would be the top sport story. His career was over and he didn't give a shit.

He hadn't slept, and so felt hollow and ill as he sat down in front of Hershel, who was disappointed and angry at the circumstances that had led to his star rider terminating his contract.

"Some folks are calling what you did attempted murder," Hershel explained, sitting back with a sigh. Rick had never seen him look so old. "You'll be lucky to set foot in a racetrack ever again."

Rick bowed his head, feeling like a pupil being told off by the headmaster. His dad had come with him for moral support, and put a reassuring hand on his knee.

"Cut the boy some slack," Richard told Hershel gently. "He knows he's done wrong. He's got a lot to deal with."

"I'll never be able to repay you for what I've done," Rick choked. "I'm so sorry, Hershel. I know I've ruined my reputation and hurt your team, and... I'm _sorry_. I'm so, so sorry."

Hershel's face softened. He leant forward on his mahogany desk and pushed a box of tissues towards Rick.

"I'm sorry too. Sorry you've thrown your job and reputation away." Hershel stood up, opening the door of his drinks cabinet and pouring three glasses of brandy. He handed one each to Rick and his dad, before holding his own glass up and downing it. "I only break this stuff out in extreme circumstances, Rick. Now, I want you to get yourself together. Sort out whatever the hell is going on with you. _That's_ how you can repay me."

"Yes sir," Rick had never felt so small and insignificant.

Hershel sighed.

"Look, me and your dad go back decades, and I've been in the game long enough to have some sway with the powers that be - I'll see to it that Walsh doesn't take this any further. God knows he's hardly innocent in all of this mess."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me," Hershel replied. "Thank your father for stopping me from going to the ranch and tearing your head off last night. You're a good kid, I know it. Find your way again, Rick."

*

_"Merle?"_

_"Yes bro?"_

_"Who's Denise?"_

_"Huh?"_

_"I said – who's Denise?"_

_"Denise ain't nobody. Ya don't want ta go with her. Stay here with me."_

_Daryl felt a wetness against his hand. He looked down, and saw a long pink tongue licking his fingers enthusiastically._

_"Jack, where'd ya come from, pup?"_

_Daryl bent down, pressing his face into the dog's short fur. God, he'd missed that smell, and the low grunts Jack gave when Daryl scratched behind his ears._

_"Missed ya, boy."_

_He could stay here with Jack and Merle, Daryl decided. Sure, Merle was a pain in the ass, but at least he was kin; he was blood. And Jack was here. How could he leave Jack? But then Denise was telling him to come back, come back, come back. He didn't know who Denise was. Who was she? Why was she saying his name? Why..._

*

"I'm glad you're going to be here for this," Rick told Michonne as they waited for Lori to arrive with Carl. Rick hadn't seen either of them since the race.

Michonne sat down at the kitchen table and pulled the lid off a tub of yogurt. She looked exhausted.

"Well, it's either that or visit Daryl a little earlier today, and he's not much of a conversationalist," she drawled. "Although to be fair that's nothing to do with the coma."

Rick looked at Michonne and couldn't help but laugh. She did the same, her eyes sparkling with tears. Jokes at Daryl's expense had become their way of coping.

"He'd have been lost without you all these years, you know that don't you?" Rick found himself telling her. "You were always there, especially when _I_ wasn't."

"Don't be getting sentimental," Michonne said hurriedly, focusing on stabbing her spoon into the yogurt. "I _can't_ , Rick. If you make me break then I'm not sure I'll be able to keep functioning." She clenched her fist and shook her head angrily. "He has to fucking make it, okay? I'd miss that sarcastic asshole." She looked at Rick earnestly. "And don't feel like nobody else wouldn't have done what you did to Shane. I fucking would have, too."

Rick bit the inside of his cheek, turning around to busy himself with making coffee. He heard a car door slam, and squeezed his eyes shut as he mentally braced himself for the verbal assault that Lori was inevitably going to launch into the second she laid eyes on him.

"Daddy!" Carl squealed, running into Rick's arms. Rick had never hugged him so tightly, enjoying the smell of his hair and skin. He pulled away reluctantly. "How about you go watch television in the lounge? There are cartoons on. I'll bring you in some milk and cookies in a second, okay?"

Carl ran happily into the lounge, and Rick turned to face Lori. He was shocked to see her with unwashed hair and no make-up on; her clothes baggy and shapeless.

"You want a coffee?" he asked.

She shook her head, sitting down at the kitchen table opposite a silent Michonne. Rick joined them, immediately launching into an apology for what he had done.

"I lost my head," he babbled, unable to gauge Lori's mood. "It was fucked up, what I did. I didn't go into it intending to hurt Shane, or make him crash. I just... Daryl was on the ground, and I fucked up, Lori. I fucked _up_. I know you must hate me. _He_ already does, so..."

"I don't hate you."

Rick gave a relieved nod.

"How is he?"

"He's stiff and bruised," Lori replied blankly. "He'll be fine in a few days." She pulled a tissue from her pocket and gave a sniff.

"Maybe I'll come see him when he's up to it," Rick offered. "Apologise in person."

For the first time, Lori looked him in the eyes. Christ, she looked awful.

"Please don't," she said. "He won't want to see you, and I know you don't want to see _him_."

"I have to make things right," Rick argued.

"There's nothing to be done that will ever make things right between the two of you," Lori sounded weary. "You've both done bad things. All of us have – you, me, Shane... _Daryl_. The best thing you and Shane can both do is keep away from each other."

"That's a little hard when he's around my son," Rick was exhausted from having the same fucking arguments with Lori over and over.

"You need to accept that Carl will be around him," Lori's voice was hard. "Because he and I are _together_." She suddenly paused, and her face reddened. "But..."

"But what?"

Lori's eyes widened.

"I was shocked by what you did, Rick. But I wasn't shocked by what _he_ did. I just wonder what that means about the kind of man he is."

"You chose him."

"I did," she admitted. "I guess I'm still figuring out what that means."

Rick sat back and exhaled.

"When you came over here today, this wasn't the reaction I expected."

"Me neither. But then I never saw anyone get hurt the way Daryl did before. Made me think. Made me _scared_. I don't want that for Shane. I don't want that for _you_. Carl needs you to be around, you're the only daddy he will ever have."

She chewed on the side of a fake fingernail momentarily before leaning towards Rick.

"I need you to tell me that you're not going to do anything..."

"Anything what?"

" _Crazy_ ," she exclaimed. "Because honestly, Rick, your head seems a bit..." She held her index finger up to the side of her head and circled it. "I just want to feel reassured that you're in a fit state to look after Carl."

"Of course I fucking am," Rick snapped, shaking his head. "You know, Lori, I _knew_ you couldn't come here without getting in your little digs, and -"

Michonne's mobile rang, cutting Rick short.

"It's your dad," she said quickly, putting her hand to her chest as she answered. Rick watched her eyes widen as she nodded quickly. Rick's head went light with dread as Michonne began to cry, covering her eyes as she started shaking and gasping.

" _Michonne_?" Rick asked, his voice panicked.

Michonne made a sound that was half-laughing, half-crying.

"He's awake."

*

"You were in a coma for almost five days, Mr Dixon. My name's Denise Cloyd and I'm the doctor that's been looking after you."

"Fuck off," Daryl mumbled, trying to lift his arms and failing.

Doctor Cloyd shushed him and busied herself with taking his blood pressure.

"Now, now," she said cheerily. "This is the third time you've been awake since you first came out of the coma, and every time, you've told me to fuck off. It's getting quite boring."

Daryl closed his eyes, hoping it would help ease the unbearable pain in his head. All around him were tubes and machines, nurses with clipboards, and medication that he didn't want. He didn't know how or why or when or where the fuck he was.

He just wanted to go back to sleep. So he did.

*

"You've been in a coma for almost five days, Mr Dixon. I'm Denise and I'm the doctor that's been taking care of you."

"Yeah, so you've told me," Daryl managed to grunt.

"Progress, wonderful!"

Doctor Cloyd held a glass of water to his face and he drank gratefully.

"Need a piss," he said.

"You have a catheter," the doctor explained.

" _Fuck_ ," Daryl moaned. He turned his head to see several cards on the table beside him. "Who are they from?"

"Your family," Doctor Cloyd replied, sticking a thermometer in his mouth.

"Ain't got no family."

"Oh I disagree," she smiled. "They've been at your bedside."

Daryl tried to sit up, to no avail. His right ankle itched like fuck but his legs were in plaster.

"I got to get up," he said adamantly.

"What for?"

"Got a race ta do. Atlanta. Me or Rick Grimes will win an' I need ta get goin'."

"You were in the race already, Daryl. That's how you ended up here."

"Ain't I only been sleepin' for ten minutes?"

"No, Daryl. You're going to feel confused for a while. Go back to sleep, you need your rest before we can start letting you have some visitors."

*

Rick sat anxiously by the window, watching as Michonne and his dad returned back to the ranch after being at the hospital. Rick hadn't seen Daryl since he had woken up; there were fans and media camped outside the ward constantly, and Rick wanted to be away from prying eyes. Also, he was terrified of seeing how bad Daryl was. He knew he was being a coward, but he couldn't help it.

Even from a distance, when he saw Michonne get out of the car, he could see she had been crying. Richard held her hand as they entered the kitchen, where Rick had made a pot of strong coffee.

"Sit down," Richard said gently, rubbing Michonne's back as he did so. He looked at Rick. "Son, will you make her some toast? Plenty of peanut butter."

"What the hell's going on?" Rick asked, his heart thumping. His dad was grim-faced. "Is Daryl alright? He's not... his spine... is it okay?"

Richard poured them all coffee and sat down. Michonne wiped her eyes and picked up her cup with trembling hands.

"He's going to be having multiple surgeries over the next few weeks," Michonne began. "They have to put his kneecaps back together... put him in a brace to fix his spine... put titanium in his face and head..."

Rick clapped a hand over his mouth. Daryl wouldn't be able to cope with ten minutes in a hospital bed, let alone several months.

"But he's going to be okay, right?" he asked, hope in his voice. "I mean, he's got the best people treating him, and he's young and strong, and..."

"And he won't ever race again," Michonne's face crumpled.

Rick felt a wave of nausea.

"...What?"

Richard put an arm around Michonne's shoulder as she looked downward, trying desperately to fight back tears.

"Denise, his doctor, said it's too dangerous," Richard began. "She said he was lucky this time, but if he got back on a bike and crashed again, he could sustain worse damage. Paralysis – or worse. And that's before they even get into the skull fracture. He's going to have a plate in his head and eye socket, and..."

" _Lucky_?" Rick exclaimed. "They said he's been fucking _LUCKY_?" He stood up, kicking the chair away. He needed to run, ride, go outside and put his fist into a tree.

"Rick, calm down," Richard warned. "You reacting like this isn't going to help anyone."

Rick put his hands on either side of his head, backing against the wall.

"Does he know?"

Michonne nodded.

"He knows."

"And?"

"He's _coping_ ," was all Michonne said.

*

Daryl could see Michonne try not to wince at his appearance every time she visited. She did a better job than most at that, and Daryl appreciated that more than she would ever know. She brought him some chocolate each time, along with books she thought he might like. He didn't have the heart to tell her that the pain in his head and his reduced vision from his busted up eye socket stopped him from reading.

"You look better," she said chirpily as she sat down, handing him a small bottle of orange juice and a straw.

"Any vodka to go with that?" Daryl croaked, feeling humiliated as he kept missing the top of the bottle with the straw. Michonne gently took it off him and held it up to his lips so he could take a sip.

"Once you get your surgery, you'll see better," she told him.

"An' set off metal detectors at the airport," Daryl replied drily. "A face full of titanium an' knees held together with fuckin' screws an' wires; just what I've always wanted."

Michonne squeezed his hand. He couldn't bear her sympathetic expression. She'd worn the same look since he'd told her what the doctors had said – that he was facing months of recovery, that his knees might never fully heal, that another head injury could be fatal. That because of all those things, he would have to retire from racing.

"Doctors can work miracles these days..."

"Jus' stop it, 'Chonne," he couldn't stop himself from snapping. "Don't go pretendin' that everythin' isn't fucked."

"It's n..."

"It fuckin' is. Lyin' here pissin' inta a bag, not allowed ta move until the vertabrae heals, waitin' on fuck knows how many surgeries an' then rehab. An' at the end, no more racin', and..." Daryl's voice choked at the last part. He saw Michonne bite her lip, clearly trying to stop herself from crying. Typical Michonne, being strong for everyone else's sake.

"There's more to life than racing," she said firmly, eyes narrowed in determination.

"Not my life. Know that I was closer ta the end of my racin' career than the beginnin', but..." Daryl rested his head back against the pillow, trying to ignore the dull ache in the bottom of his stomach.

Michonne grasped his hand, determination on her face.

"So when you're healed, come be the deputy boss of Katana," she said matter-of-factly. "You don't need to _race_ for me to help me. You and me, running the team together – you know we would have a blast."

"Come on, 'Chonne, ya know that ain't me," Daryl shook his head. "Sittin' on a pit wall, givin' interviews, goin' ta meetings? I don't give a fuck about shit like that. Jus' wanted ta go fast on a bike, that's all."

"I want you to do whatever keeps you in my life," Michonne's voice wavered. "And I'm not saying that as your boss. I'm saying that as someone who cares about you. You're my best friend and I love you. More than that, you're _family_ , Daryl. _My_ family, Richard's... Rick's..."

"Rick ain't been here."

"He was though, Daryl. He was at your bedside after it happened. And he's scared to come now. I think seeing you would hurt him too damn much. And there's crowds outside, holding posters of you up, and get well soon signs, and he'd just be mobbed if he set foot near this place."

"An' he's probably celebratin'," Daryl tried to keep the bitter tone from his voice. Rick was probably enjoying himself somewhere and he was trapped here in this sterile white hellhole with only a small television and bullshit celebrity magazines for company.

"Celebrating?" Michonne raised an eyebrow.

"He must have won the race, right? If Shane took me out. I'm guessin' Rick won the Championship too."

"You don't know?" Michonne asked. " _You're_ World Champion. After Shane caused your crash, Rick rode beside him and grabbed his brake lever."

Daryl would have laughed if it hadn't been so painful.

"Fuckin' crazy bastard," he smiled. "He okay? Walsh?"

"They're both fine," Michonne nodded. "In trouble, but fine. We can talk about it all when you're back on your feet."

"That's months an' months away. Tell me now."

Michonne relented and began to speak. It was mere minutes before Daryl's eyes began to close and Michonne's voice sounded further and further away. He dreamt of the noise of the ambulance, of motorcycles - and Rick.

*

"Screw you, man. Face all busted up and you're _still_ better looking than I am."

Dwight shook his head and handed Daryl a rolled up newspaper as he sat down.

"Only if ya think havin' a face that looks like ground up meat is good lookin'," Daryl managed to sit up, pushing away the tray that contained tasteless mashed potatoes and over-cooked carrots.

"Didn't think you were so proud of how you looked before," Dwight shook his head. "Fuck up, man. You think _that's_ bad, the way your face is? You think I don't wish every fucking day that my face was even in _half_ as good a state as yours?"

He leant in conspiratorally.

"The girls will still be after you, if that's what you're worried about."

"I ain't, but thanks."

Dwight sat back in the chair, nonchalantly putting his feet up on the side of the bed. He took a matchstick from his pocket and began to chew it.

"Gets easier to look in a mirror, after a while," he said carefully, touching the side of his face lightly. Daryl turned to watch; Dwight hadn't ever really mentioned his burnt face before, let alone divulged how it happened.

"Did I ever tell you that I worked for Negan?" he began. "Back before he started Sanctuary. Was just a little team back then, going from local race to local race. He'd hire and fire different riders every week and then move onto the next racetrack. Liked me 'cause I didn't talk back to him; did what I was told 'cause I needed the bucks. Anyways, he was negligent as fuck. Made some kid ride a bike into the garage with a fuel leak even though I was screaming at him not to, and... _boom_. The kid came out worse than I did, if you'd believe it." He gestured to the burnt skin on his face. "Know what Negan said? _Oops_."

"Sounds 'bout right," Daryl said wrily. "He tried ta get me ta race fer him, 'bout five years ago now."

"I'm glad you turned him down," Dwight replied earnestly. "Bad news, that's all he is."

"It don't matter now, ain't racin' fer anyone ever again," Daryl said faintly. He picked up the newspaper and straightened it out. "What did ya bring me?"

"Newspaper from the day after the race. Kept it for you to read, know you're not one for the internet."

"Thanks," Daryl said, looking down dispassionately at the half-page photograph of his accident. Didn't seem real, to look at himself lying in a heap in the gravel.

 _'Dixon wins Championship but fights for life'_ the headline said. Bit of an exaggeration, Daryl thought, turning the page and holding his breath as he saw a photo of Rick and Shane's bikes side by side; Rick's arm out straight as he grabbed onto Shane's brake lever. Daryl shook his head. Fuck, Rick had done wrong, no doubt about it. But he'd done wrong for _him_.

"Can I keep this?" Daryl asked, holding up the newspaper.

"What? You gonna _frame_ it?" Dwight joked.

"Cold weather's comin' up, good fer the fire," Daryl quipped, knowing full well that he'd keep the newspaper until the day he died, whether that was sooner or later.

*

_"Ya comin' with me or not, little bro?"_

_"Why are ya here, Merle? Am I back in the coma?"_

_"Nope, yer sleepin'. Prob'ly snorin' too, ya asshole."_

_"Fuck you, I don't snore."_

_"Enough of yer yappin'. C'mon, let's get goin'."_

_"Go where?"_

_"Jus' follow me an' you'll see."_

_"Naw, Merle. I ain't followin' ya."_

_"Really?"_

_"Really."_

_"I'll let ya go this time, Daryl. But next time you're here, you're comin' on the ride with me okay? For good."_

_"Okay Merle."_

_"Little bro?"_

_"What the fuck do ya want now?"_

_"Ya got a visitor. WAKE UP."_

_Wake up_

_wake_ up

 _wak_ e up

 _w_ ake up

wake up _._

"Wake up. Daryl?"

Daryl groaned as he opened his eyes. Damn hospital lighting was hurting his head even more than it already was. His nose itched, still sticky with dried blood. He felt a little better though, less fuzzy. Less like his head was full of cotton wool. He hurt like a bitch all over, but physical pain had never bothered him.

He squinted, letting his eyes adjust, a face at the side of the bed nothing more than swirls and fog. But the features soon came into focus – a long nose, soft pink lips – and the damndest blue eyes in the world.

Daryl tried to say Rick's name, but his voice came out in an embarrassing croak. He sat up, Rick plumping the pillows so that he could get comfortable.

"Poured you a glass of water," Rick said, almost shyly. He held it up so Daryl could take a sip.

"Ya okay?" Daryl was finally able to speak.

Rick laughed in disbelief.

"Am _I_ okay? You're actually asking _me_ when you're the one lying here?"

Daryl's eyes narrowed as he surveyed Rick's wretched appearance. Rick was handsome – he had proper TV star good looks – but Daryl realised that it had been months; years maybe, since Rick had looked well.

"Michonne told me about the ban, an' Dwight brought the newspaper for me ta read from the day after. 'M sorry."

Rick shrugged, sitting back in the chair.

"A ban's nothing compared to what happened to you."

Daryl looked away from Rick's stare. Was a mess, what the two of them had gotten themselves into. Rick with a ruined reputation and him with a ruined body.

"Yeah well, didn't Shane always say that everyone had ta have the big one? Was jus' my time, is all."

"Wasn't your time," Rick pointed. "It was his fucking _fault_."

"Was always comin', with him. Been playin' a dangerous game fer years." Daryl scratched underneath his eye, the bandages irritating him. He wanted to get these damn surgeries over and done with as soon as possible, and get back home. He wanted a cup of coffee that was actually good, and his craving for nicotine was beginning to really kick in.

"Dad wants you to come live at the ranch while you're recovering," Rick said as Daryl picked up a knitting needle Michonne had given him and began to scratch his leg underneath the plaster. "And we'll all help any way we can – I'm still friends with Siddiq, the rehab doctor from when I hurt my wrist, remember him? He could help you. We'll get you the very best people, Daryl."

"Best place fer me ta be is my own home," Daryl replied. "I can cope on my own, Grimes. Don't need no help or a babysitter. They jus' need ta get me fixed enough so's I can walk, is all. Don't need ta perform any miracles when I won't ever race again. What's the point."

Daryl saw the consternation on Rick's face.

"Don't give me that pity party look," he warned. "Ain't gettin' all down, if that's what yer worried about. I'll be okay, 'cause I gotta be. Ain't anythin' else fer it."

Daryl saw Rick glance over at the window before clasping his hands in his.

"Never been so fucking scared," he breathed. "I thought that was it. I thought you were _gone_. And I fucked up bad, Daryl, with what I did to Shane. But I never would have if I hadn't thought..."

"Ya don't need ta explain yerself ta me, Rick." He felt his voice choke up. "Other way around an' I'd have killed him after the race with my bare hands, no doubt. I'd have done anythin' to make him pay."

Rick shook his head. Daryl could see the guilt etched on his face.

"There's something wrong with me, Daryl, and I have to get my head straight about what I did." His voice cracked. "I could have killed Shane. I could have killed any of us – you, me."

"What ya did... that ain't _you,"_ Daryl said.

"It was," Rick's brow furrowed. "For those few seconds, I was _gone_. I didn't give a shit if either of us were killed, I just wanted revenge for what he did to you."

"It ain't you," Daryl repeated.

Rick pinched the top of his nose, his eyes suddenly becoming reddened and watery.

"Maybe all of this is a wake up call..." he began. "I mean, maybe things... with _us_..."

"No." Daryl had suspected Rick might say something like that. He'd wanted to be wrong. Rick deserved better than some half-crippled loser with no career and a face that would scare kids.

"Why not?" Rick looked confused.

"'Cause I can't go back to that, Grimes. An' ya can't _ask_ that of me when I'm lyin' here in bits."

"Please don't give me all that crap about you not being good enough for someone. About not deserving anything good," Rick begged, resting his elbows on the bed to get closer.

"What makes ya so sure it'd be good anyhow?" Daryl asked. "You don't know. An' neither do I. Knowin' us, it'd be a big fuckin' mess. A mess with a kid in the mix. An' I don't ever want ta be in the position where I _need_ ya. Been five years. Got used ta not havin' _us_. Made my peace with it, an' ya need to do the same. Wouldn't want me with a face like this anyhow."

"We'd work something out..."

"Just like that, huh? Naw, bottom line is – we ain't good for one another, Rick. Ya tellin' me that after all these years, suddenly we'd come up with some magic solution where we live happily ever after? Things ain't any different now than they were when Lori first got knocked up. We're both gonna be 30 soon. What, we gonna creep about like when we were kids, sneaking into each other's hotel rooms for a quick fuck?"

"Well there wouldn't be any hotels once I..."

"Once ya what?" Daryl eyed Rick suspiciously.

Rick's chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath.

"There's something you need to know, Daryl. Next year would have been my last season racing. I was meant to be retiring. Hershel and Dad are the only ones who know. So..."

"An' ya weren't gonna tell me?"

"I was, I swear. It was just never the right time. We were getting along so well and I didn't want to ruin it."

Daryl looked at the plaster encasing his legs, and touched his swollen temple lightly. All he wanted was to race – he never would have chosen to stop himself. And Rick was sitting here, telling him that he was quitting _voluntarily_? Fucking asshole.

"Well good for you, Grimes. Yer stoppin' 'cause ya _want_ ta. I'm stoppin' cause I _have_ ta. Fuckin' well done. _Bravo_." He turned his head away. "Think ya should leave."

Rick sounded stunned.

"Please don't ask me to go, Daryl."

Daryl closed his eyes.

"Get out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I feel so bad for both of them - I am truly evil.
> 
> Next chapter as soon as I can write it, and comments on this one appreciated as always x


	22. 22.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life post-racing is hard for both Rick and Daryl.
> 
> You can find any collages and fic inspiration for Wild Cards here:  
> https://charcoaleyes-and-monroehips.tumblr.com/  
> I also post updates there about posting times and how far behind I am!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, time jump! It's so much fun writing them. Clearly, as this is me writing, expect it to be angst-ridden as usual - but hey, at least you get to hear what everyone's been up to.

**5 years later**

Rick grit his teeth as he waited for Carl's reaction. Nine year olds could be brutally honest; painfully so sometimes.

"So, what do you think?" he asked anxiously as he leant against the wall while his son walked around the room, an inquisitive expression on his face.

Carl wrinkled his freckled nose and shrugged as he scratched a fingernail down peeling jade-green paint.

"It's okay I guess," he mused.

Rick gripped onto the kitchen counter.

"Okay enough to want to stay here on the weeks I have you when all the work is done?"

Carl shrugged again.

"Sure."

Rick turned towards Rosita, the realtor he'd been working with.

"It needs serious work," he shook his head, half-laughing at the prospect of taking this ramshackle place on.

"It does," she nodded. "There's water damage and a leak in the roof, and the plumbing and electrics need updated." She smiled, her teeth brilliant white against the scarlet lipstick on her wide mouth. "However – properties from the 1870s aren't going to come along every day at this price. And you _did_ tell me to find you a fixer-upper."

Rick put his hands on his hips and surveyed the hallway of the dilapidated house. He had all the time in the world to get it fixed up, and it was only a ten minute drive from the ranch. The stained glass windows and curved staircase gave a glimpse of what the house used to be. What it could be again.

Carl was happily opening and closing the kitchen cupboard doors by now, looking for bugs.

"This place is _cool_ ," he exclaimed, watching as a spider scurried across the floor.

Rick exhaled, his heart starting to beat with excitement at the prospect of buying his own house. God knows there hadn't been much of it in his life since he'd retired. He'd been looking for a place of his own for six months. After his dad and Michonne had gotten married, he'd felt intrusive staying at the ranch, even as big as it was. He loved it there, but Carl lived with him every other week, and Rick wanted his own home for the two of them to just _be_. His dad had protested, said there was enough room for them all – but Rick was 34 years old. It was time. And he needed a project.

In his darker moments he would admit to himself that the memories of both Daryl and Lori at the ranch were just too much to live with every day.

"Let's put the wheels in motion," he told Rosita steadfastly.

Rosita held her clipboard to her chest, grinning.

"I'll get the paperwork together, and you can sign everything tomorrow afternoon, okay?"

Rick nodded, shaking her hand before she left.

On the short drive back to the ranch, Carl made him laugh, singing _Puh-puh-puh poker face puh-puh-puh poker face_ and asking excitedly if he thought the new house was haunted.

"It's old," Rick replied, taking pleasure in Carl's love of all things weird. He glanced at his son, smiling mischeviously. "Would you _like_ if it had a ghost?"

"Definitely!" Carl enthused gleefully. "Mom would hate that, wouldn't she?"

Rick paused before replying. He and Lori were on pretty good terms nowadays. Sometimes she even laughed when he made silly jokes.

"She really would." He shook his head, grinning.

"Not as much as Shane," Carl giggled. "He won't even read my _Goosebumps_ books."

Rick stifled a smile. He had long since accepted the fact that Carl lived with Lori and Shane, but every now and again Carl would say something that made Rick realise that Shane would never be anything but his mom's live-in boyfriend. He didn't criticise Shane in front of Carl, but he was happy when Carl made sly little comments about him.

Rick drove through the gate that would take them up the long road that led to the ranch. The trees were rapidly losing their leaves, and there were large bales of hay placed in the paddocks for the horses to feed on as winter approached.

Michonne's new black Porsche was parked outside the house; a car she had bought herself after selling the city apartment where she had lived for so long. Every time Rick thought about her old apartment, he thought of Daryl. Daryl, who had always found advice and refuge there. Daryl, who he hadn't seen since that day in the hospital when he'd told Rick to leave.

Daryl had refused everyone's help. When Rick had asked to see him, the doctors had said that Rick's mere presence was distressing and counter-productive for Daryl. Rick had tried, he really had. After Daryl had left hospital, phone call after phone call had gone unanswered. Text messages hadn't worked either, and on the few occasions Rick had dared to drive up to the cabin, Daryl had refused to answer the door.

After a few months, Rick had given up. Carl had begun school; Rick had started scouting young riders for his dad's junior team - and then just like that, five years had passed without Rick even noticing.

He'd heard snippets of information from his former doctor, Siddiq, but Siddiq was a by-the-book guy, and would remind Rick in the least harsh way possible about patient confidentiality. Siddiq knew one of the doctors who had worked with Daryl, and all he would say was that Daryl's surgeries had gone as well as expected, that he could walk and live a normal life, but that he'd probably suffer pain for the rest of his days as a consequence. Rick tried not to think about Daryl suffering in that way.

It was just another thing that Rick tried to push out of his mind.

In the kitchen at the ranch, Carl ran into Michonne's arms for a hug, which she gratefully provided. She nodded a hello to Rick, then busied herself with pouring Carl a glass of milk. Rick didn't have much to say to her these days – Daryl's name always hung heavy and unspoken over every interaction they had, but Rick had spent so long avoiding having to speak about him to Michonne, that along the way he had forgotten how to talk to her at all.

"You want hotdogs for dinner?" Michonne asked Carl.

"I have to drop him back to Lori's in a half hour," Rick said quickly, wincing at the crestfallen look on Carl's face. "He has school tomorrow."

"Oh sorry, I didn't realise, I..." Michonne bit her lip and looked away.

"It's fine," Rick replied hurriedly. "Don't worry about it."

"I can make him a quick sandwich?" She suggested. "There's chicken in the fr..."

"I said it's fine," Rick said, sounding sharper than he'd meant to. Michonne smiled wanly at Carl before bending down to his level.

"Maybe some other day, huh?"

"Cool," Carl grinned.

"Is dad about?" Rick asked, scratching the back of his head nervously.

Michonne shook her head.

"He's doing some business in the city. Is there something you need him for? Anything I can help with?" Michonne's expression was hopeful.

"I was only asking."

Michonne's shoulders visibly slunk as she sighed. Rick was sick of the pitying expression she always had on her face when she spoke to him.

"Rick..."

Rick turned away and held his hand out for Carl to take.

"I'll see you later. C'mon, Carl. Time to go home."

*

Daryl's right knee hurt like a bitch today. He rubbed it in circles with his thumb and forefinger, trying to ease the familiar ache. It was always like this when he was tired, or had done too much; just something he had gotten used to long ago.

Even in the middle of the afternoon, the dive bar was dim; its green stained glass windows not letting in any light thanks to years of grime and dust. Inside was a fug of stale smoke and the smell of spilt alcohol. Daryl felt at home here.

"Another whisky?" the bartender asked, glancing up from his newspaper.

Daryl looked at the empty glasses in front of him. He'd had a lot, but still not enough. It was never enough.

He gave a curt nod.

"Yeah. Stick it on my tab, I've run out."

The bartender shook his head and put the bottle of whisky back in its place.

"No can do, Dixon. Told you last time you were here, it's cash or nothing."

Daryl wrinkled his nose, really wanting another damn drink.

"Aw come on, man," he moaned. "Ya know I'm good fer it."

" _Are_ you?" the bartender queried. "'Cause last time you were here you offered me one of your old race helmets as payment. Although I doubt you remember, you were fucked up that night, man."

Daryl got up off his stool, stumbling backwards from intoxication and his weak knees.

"Fuck all y'all, then," he threw an arm up in anger. "Will take my fuckin' business elsewhere."

He patted the pockets of his black cord jacket, looking for his cigarettes. He swore as he realised he'd smoked the last one an hour ago.

"Looking for a cigarette?"

A tall man with a faintly comical mustache emerged from a dim corner of the bar; a zippo lighter in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. Daryl raised an eyebrow before taking the cigarette, and leaning towards the flame.

The man closed the lid of the zippo with a click and held a finger up towards the bartender.

"Get us a whisky each. Hell, get us two each. Not every day I get the chance to buy the great Daryl Dixon a drink." He smiled, his eyes widening in a deranged manner as he did so.

"Thanks," Daryl mumbled, sitting back down onto the stool. He looked up at the small television on the wall, smiling bitterly as he saw that the race coverage was starting. He paid more attention to racing these days than he cared to admit, so he recognised the Atlanta track instantly. The two hosts were standing in the paddock with their microphones, and in the middle was Shane fucking Walsh, laughing and giving his opinions.

Like he and Rick, after Atlanta '04, Shane had never raced again. He'd been given a multi-race ban for causing Daryl's crash, but Negan had fired him from Sanctuary the following week anyway. Was what Shane had deserved, Daryl reflected. He'd ruined Daryl's career and pretty much caused Rick's demise too. And yet, there he was, working for a sports channel as a pundit, talking about the 'glory days' of the Walsh/Grimes/Dixon years, as if he'd been anywhere near the calibre of rider that he and Rick had been - and making a fuckton of cash doing it too, no doubt.

Shane had shaved his head, Daryl noticed, and like himself, had lost some muscle and gained some weight, but he still looked like the same asshole Daryl had raced against and despised. He wondered if Shane was still with Lori, then pushed the thought of that woman from his mind.

"Prick," Daryl snapped, throwing a whisky back.

"I'll drink to that," his companion agreed, holding out his glass to clink it against Daryl's. "I remember what he did to you, almost killed you, didn't he?"

Daryl made a _pfft_ noise. Sometimes he thought that there was no 'almost' about it.

"Beat me up pretty good, yeah." His hand automatically went to the side of his face that had been busted up. Even now, he got headaches from all the metal in his eye socket and nose that they had used to rebuild his face.

"Name's Simon," the man held out his hand. Daryl shook it, feeling an odd level of discomfort at the man's demeanour. His outward friendliness seemed to be masking a more aggressive side – growing up with his daddy, Daryl could spot men like that a mile off. But hell, Simon was buying him drinks, so he could be civil until it was time to go home.

They both turned their attention back to the television, which was showing the beginning of the race.

"Predictions?" Simon asked casually.

Daryl licked his lips.

"Can't see Team Greene doin' shit today. Maybe one of the Sanctuary bikes, or Katana if the rain comes like I think it's gonna."

Simon raised his eyebrow, making him look even more maniacal.

"Think you're wrong, I reckon Team Greene could take this. Care to make it a bit more interesting?" He pulled a twenty dollar bill from his wallet.

Daryl shook his head.

"You know I ain't got even one dollar on me."

Simon smiled slowly.

"Life after racing doesn't pay well, huh?"

"Nope."

Daryl thought about his garage full of vintage bikes. Bikes he'd bought with race winnings instead of investing it. He'd be willing to bet Rick had stocks and shares and bonds – whatever the fuck all those things were. Then there'd been the winter when the damn roof of the cabin had started leaking and almost fucking fell in, and the nights – the many, many nights – when he'd bought the whole bar a drink, and that time he'd woken up in some guy's apartment and found his wallet empty. Bottom line was, he was fucking broke.

"You'd bet if you had some bucks on you though, right?" Simon handed him another cigarette.

"Guess so," Daryl agreed. "Why not."

"Well, me and some boys have a poker night once a week," Simon explained. "Would be an honour to have Daryl Dixon join it sometime."

"Ain't got fuck all else ta do," Daryl mused.

*

Rick looked around the bar from the secluded booth where he was sitting. He sank back into the red leather seat, trying not to complain about how loud the music was. He didn't want to turn into his father any more than he already had.

"Thanks for the beers," Siddiq smiled.

"It's the least I could do after you gave up your entire Saturday to help me clear out the new place," Rick replied, nodding at the waitress to indicate they wanted another round. He rubbed the back of his neck, wincing. "Man, I'm going to feel sore in the morning."

"As long as that hand of yours is alright," Siddiq's brow furrowed.

"It's been fine for years," Rick laughed. "Do you ever stop being my doctor as well as my friend?"

"No."

Rick drank his beer contentedly, enjoying the nice fuzziness that it was starting to provide. He liked the easy friendship that Siddiq and he shared, and was glad they'd stayed in touch after Rick's rehab had finished, all those years ago. He'd wanted desperately for Siddiq to help Daryl with his injuries, but much like everything else Rick had yearned for at the time, it hadn't come to pass.

Siddiq snorted to himself.

"What is it?" Rick asked.

Siddiq exhaled, looking around the bar.

"It's full of couples in here, and we're sitting here on our own. It's Saturday night and my only option for company was _you_. Two losers in their 30s."

"But this is _our_ place," Rick joked. He and Siddiq regularly met up for a couple of drinks. Rick didn't really have anybody else for company, asides from Carl and his dad. It was nice to spend time with another man who was around his age. He didn't find many people fulfilling, he supposed. Maybe as someone who'd been high-profile for most of his life, and who knew dozens of people, he should have had a wide social network – but things hadn't turned out like that. Perhaps that was the result of hiding so much of himself for years.

He glanced around, and realised that Siddiq was right – there were men and women of all ages together; some clearly on first dates, some established couples enjoying a night out, even some pairings bickering.

"You never think about marrying again, Rick?" Siddiq suddenly asked.

Rick thought carefully before answering. He'd never admit it, but he would love to be married again; to have that security and sense that someone was his home. But he knew he'd never find that person because nobody would ever be right for him, and he'd never ever find someone who he'd feel he could be honest about his past with.

"I don't think I'm someone who can make a woman happy," he finally replied.

"Man, I think it'd be nice to try," Siddiq said wistfully. He looked up, shyness in his soft brown eyes. "That girl who sold you the house..."

"Rosita?"

"Is she..."

"No," Rick smiled. "She's not. Want me to ask her if I can give you her number?"

Siddiq nodded enthusiastically and threw a peanut into the air, catching it in his mouth expertly by way of celebration.

Rick had three more beers before heading back to the ranch. His dad and Michonne were out and it was Lori's week with Carl, so the whole house was in darkness. Rick felt the loneliness sink through his skin and into his bones. He took another beer from the fridge and retreated to his bedroom, where at least his laptop could provide him with some company. Embarrassingly, Carl was already more proficient than he was at the internet, but he knew enough to wile away some solitary hours.

He logged onto a racing messageboard under the name _redmachete_ , something he'd chosen at random after using one cutting hedges at the ranch the day he had joined. None of his fellow posters had any idea who he was, and Rick liked it that way. He chuckled to himself as he read one of the topics.

_**Five years on, let's settle this! Who was best – Rick Grimes or Daryl Dixon?** _

Rick took a swig of beer and grinned as he flexed his fingers and began to type.

_**redmachete** _

**__** _Why is this even being asked? Easy. Daryl Dixon._

He hit refresh, enjoying the responses – some agreeing with him, some completely outraged and calling him insulting names. He wondered what they would all think if they knew that Rick Grimes was the person they were chatting to.

_**termite** _

**__** _Are you serious? Have you been hit on the head with baseball bat or something? The Python was clearly better, just A++++ in every way._

_**Porchdick** _

**__** _grimes was a prick_

_**SophiaP** _

**__** _Both were great but me and my mom met Daryl when I was a kid and he was so sweet to us both. He even gave us tickets – guess which fateful race I got to see in the flesh! :/_

_**termite** _

**__** _That race was a crying shame for all concerned. I don't think the sport has ever recovered from the loss of those two. And as much as it pains me to say it cause I couldn't stand him – Shane Walsh too. Those were glory years for US Superbike._

_**SophiaP** _

**__** _I'd just like to know what Daryl is up to now. It's so so so sad that he disappeared after he had such terrible injuries. Just to hear some news about how he is would be awesome._

_**redmachete** _

**__** _Yeah. It really would._

Someone posted an old photograph of Daryl in his Katana leathers. They were zipped down to his waist, and he wore a white vest underneath. His shoulders glistened with sweat, and he was holding his helmet in one hand and sliding the other through his hair. Rick squeezed his eyes shut in utter pain. That had to have been taken just before their last ever race, a time when Rick had been so full of hope that they might become something again.

He slammed his bottle down onto the table and stared at the photograph momentarily before running a hand down his face and sighing heavily. He got up to go to the bathroom and strip down to his underwear before sitting back down again. He licked his lips, thinking about what Siddiq had said about dating. There had been women over the past few years - not lots, but some; Rick had tried to form connections but they always fizzled out after a few weeks. Nobody made him feel the way he wanted to, and one night stands weren't really his thing, so his dating life had dwindled to the point that it was now almost non-existent. There was no point stringing girlfriends along when he always knew almost instantly that there never going to be any future with them.

But it didn't mean that he didn't _need_.

Rick finished his beer and wiped sweat from his top lip. He glanced at his bedroom door to double check that he had closed it, then he typed in another web address. He scrolled down idly until he found something that might satiate him, and a video slowly loaded of a blonde giving some faceless guy a blow job. He'd never had a thing for blonde women, but brunettes left Rick cold, after Lori. He stared blankly at the girl's plump lips and long hair, feeling irritated that he felt nothing at a time when he just needed some quick relief.

He remembered how he used to look down at Daryl doing what the girl was doing, and clicked back onto the photo of him on the messageboard. He thought about the drag of Daryl's stubble against his cock, and gave a soft whimper as he edged down his underwear.

*

Daryl was screwed. In this dark basement that smelt of body odour and greasy, fried food, he was squeezed in between other men around a small circular table that was covered in green felt. He'd been a stupid asshole, thinking that anyone could win at cards. He'd been naive to compare high-stakes poker to the shitty little games of gin rummy he and Merle had played.

_I'm happy to give you a loan to get you started,_ Simon had said. _You'll pick it up quickly and be winning in no time. A smart guy like you? No worries._

"Guess your beginner's luck has ended," Simon smiled wickedly as Daryl put his cards face down.

"Guess so."

Daryl picked at the label on his beer bottle with a thumbnail, avoiding the stares of his fellow players. Bunch of drunks and degenerates. Figured he'd end up spending all his time with men like that. Men like his daddy. Men just like him, he guessed.

Daryl stood up and pushed his chair away. Immediately, Simon's large eyebrows rose up, making his forehead appear even larger. He looked up at Daryl over his cards.

"Going somewhere?"

"Fer a piss, then home."

Simon held a hand up.

"Hold on boys," he told the other players before turning his attention back to Daryl. "You owe me money, Dixon. Damn near two months' worth now."

"I fuckin' _know_ ," Daryl snapped back. Of course he knew, it was all he thought about now. How dumb as shit had he been, taking a loan from someone like Simon to join his bullshit poker games. The first week, he'd won big. Big enough that he'd been cocky enough to keep going instead of paying Simon back and taking off with what remained of his earnings. But he'd enjoyed winning; the sensation of it. The taste. Reminded him of what it used to feel like when he was good at something; when he was better at it than anyone else.

But then, in his Dixon way, he'd kept on losing.

"If you know, then you'll know that it's in your best interests to sit right back down. Or do you want me to get Joey here to sort you out?" Simon threatened. The atmosphere now was uneasy; the other men visibly holding their breaths as they waited for violence to explode.

"Which one?" Daryl snarked. "The fat one or the ugly one?"

Simon stood up, jabbing a finger at Daryl. His lips flecked with spittle as he spoke.

"Now look here, I'm being very fucking reasonable considering the quite _considerable_ amount of money you owe me. I was very kind lending you what I did so you could get started. Now might I remind you that the night we met, you didn't even have the money for a fucking drink."

"Ya ain't threatenin' me," Daryl clenched his jaw. He wasn't scared of any asshole.

"Sit the hell back down," Simon ordered.

"Fuck off, ya'll get yer money when I have it."

Simon whistled through his teeth.

"Joey?"

Daryl stumbled as he took a step backwards in an attempt to get away from the large man who was doing Simon's bidding.

"Joey, show Mr Daryl Dixon, the oh-so-great motorcycle racer how we deal with people who don't pay their debts."

Daryl suddenly had a large forearm pressed against his chest, and the tip of a knife held precariously close to his adam's apple. He swallowed hard, trying to stare down Fat Joey. Joey's hand was quivering, and Daryl realised that if the knife nicked him, it would be purely down to Joey's fear of Simon rather than him actually wanting to hurt Daryl.

Simon paced closer, hissing so close into Daryl's ear that Daryl could feel his lips against his earlobe.

"Now you listen to me, you little shit. You play, or you pay. There's no other choice. You think I _need_ any of these assholes to tear you to pieces? Man, if I got you outside, I'd bust you up all by myself even worse than those motorbikes ever did."

Daryl didn't doubt what Simon was saying. But he knew nothing could ever wreck his body the way that the crash had. As Joey moved the knife against his skin, Daryl remembered the braces on his legs that he'd worn for six weeks; the physical therapy that he'd had to do for his knees. He winced at the memory of nosebleeds and the months of double vision after his eye socket was fixed; the vomiting, the screaming in pain as he lay on the floor of the cabin. Empty bottles of painkillers and guzzling down Jack in an attempt to numb the agony.

Yeah, Simon could fuck him up real bad, that was for sure. But he already had been, and was, fucked up.

"Play or pay, which is it?" Simon demanded to know.

Fat Joey stepped away, lowering the knife. Maybe Daryl would get lucky again.

"Play," he replied.

*

Carl ate an ice-cream happily as Rick drove them home from the movies. Sometimes Rick glanced at him, and it was like looking at an old photograph of himself.

"Don't tell your mom I bought you ice-cream before your dinner," he warned.

Carl smirked.

"What?" Rick asked.

Carl's face went scarlet.

"Nothing!"

Rick's eyes narrowed.

"You're up to something, or you're feeling guilty. You think I can't tell?"

Carl looked sheepish.

"Mom says I'm not supposed to say."

"Say what? Carl?"

Carl squirmed in his seat and squeezed his eyes shut, before reluctantly speaking.

"She was going to tell you herself in a couple of weeks. She said she wanted to tell you face to face."

"Carl, spit it out," Rick said exasperatedly.

"She's having a baby."

Rick took several deep breaths. Not in front of the boy, he told himself, as he felt rage bubble within him.

"When?"

Carl shrugged.

"Dunno, Dad."

Rick resisted the urge to press down on the gas. He knew if Carl hadn't been in the car, he would have. He wasn't even sure why he felt so angry. He'd long ceased to care about Shane and Lori, and he certainly wouldn't have ever wanted to be married to her again, or bring another child into the mess their whole relationship had been – and yet he felt hollow; panicky at the thought. He felt like he was static, while everyone moved at speed around him.

He pulled up outside the sprawling porch of the large five bedroom house that Lori and Shane had bought as a new build only the year before. Carl opened the car door, and then lingered before getting out.

"Aren't you coming in, Dad?"

"Not tonight, buddy." Rick gripped the steering wheel. Sometimes after he had Carl, he would call in for an hour, drink a Coke and have a chat with Shane while Lori fussed over Carl, asking him how his weekend had been. It was good that he and Shane had come far enough to be able to talk amiably, but they never spoke about bikes. That would only make tempers rise and re-open old wounds. They didn't need to bring up the past; how Shane had almost killed Daryl, or how Rick could have done the same to Shane.

Shane had mellowed in the years since he'd been forced out of racing; Negan firing him had humbled him somewhat, and he was tentatively building a new career as a pundit. Rick had to admit that he was good at it. Shane had even given Rick his agent's card, saying he could get Rick onto television too, but Rick couldn't think of anything worse than having millions of viewers listening to his opinions. Besides, he was enoying travelling to little motocross tracks across the country, scouting for young kids who looked like they had potential. They all reminded him of he and Daryl's days at their local track.

He drove back to the ranch quickly, hoping that nobody would hear him return. Days like these made him even more determined to get the new house finished so he wouldn't need to tiptoe up the stairs if he just wanted to be left alone.

Rick lingered at the top of the stairs as he heard Michonne in the lounge. She was talking on the phone, joking and laughing. He took two steps down stealthily so she couldn't hear that he was nearby.

"I know, I know. I miss you too! It's been so long. Can't wait to see you. It was a good season, yeah. Not as good as the old days of course..."

Rick froze. She was talking about racing. Who the hell would she be talking to about Katana? And saying she missed them? Maybe Michonne... all this time... she had been...

By the time Rick made it down the rest of the stairs and had walked into the lounge, Michonne had finished her call and was watching _Desperate Housewives_. His dad was beside her on the couch, reading the newspaper.

"So how is he?" Rick asked, an accusatory tone in his voice.

Michonne turned around, puzzled.

"Hey Rick. How's who?"

" _Daryl_ ," Rick retorted with a sneer. "I know that's who you were talking to. You call him much?"

Michonne looked genuinely taken aback. She pressed mute on the remote, and held her hands up.

"Rick, I have no idea what..."

Richard had put his newspaper down by now, watching with confused interest.

Rick leant towards her; Lori's face in his mind. Shane's face. Babies and marriages. Michonne and his dad, so smug in their love. His childhood bedroom that he was still sleeping in. Carl, who he didn't have full time. Daryl's crash. Daryl telling him to leave the hospital. Daryl refusing to speak to him. Daryl, wherever he was.

"Don't act stupid," he laughed bitterly. "I _know_ you were on the phone with Daryl. Bet you've been in touch with him this whole time haven't you? All these years, going up there, probably talking about me and laughing at me behind my back, and..." Even as Rick spoke, he knew he was going too far. He knew he was acting like a crazy person.

Michonne was shrinking back in her chair, shaking her head in denial.

"Rick, ENOUGH!" Richard stood up. "What the _hell_ is wrong with you? You're upsetting Michonne."

Typical, Rick thought. Of course his dad would stick up for Michonne instead of him. It had always been the same. And before Michonne, it had been Daryl that his father had favoured. Rick had done everything right all his life. Everything fucking right. Been a dutiful son, raced so he could follow in his dad's footsteps, stayed at the ranch all his fucking life so that his dad wouldn't feel lonely, gotten married and had a son because that's what people were supposed to do, won and won and won some more and pushed every single fucking thing he had ever felt right down to his very core, never letting it out, never telling anyone, because he was Rick Grimes, and Rick Grimes was a good guy, a professional, the perfect son, a wonderful father, a loving husband, he gave and gave and it didn't matter what the fuck he had ever wanted as long as everyone else was happy and...

"All about _her_ , isn't it?" Rick hissed, pointing at Michonne and ignoring his father's horrified expression. "Even when we were still racing I know you wanted Daryl to win instead of me, 'cause he raced for HER team."

Richard's blue eyes turned colder than Rick had ever seen them.

"You better leave before you say something that's really going to make me lose my temper with you, Rick."

Rick held his arm aloft as he continued to point at Michonne, before he let it drop pathetically down by his side.

"Oh I'm going," he shook his head weakly. "That's what the two of you wanted anyway, isn't it – me out of the ranch, so you can live your perfect happy fucking life alone."

He didn't give his dad or Michonne the opportunity to respond as he stomped upstairs, throwing a couple of t-shirts into a bag and rushing back downstairs; his dad trying to stop him on his way to his car, saying _You need help son_ , then driving to the new house, where he spent a cold, uncomfortable night sleeping on bare floorboards.

*

Daryl resisted waving as he watched his '74 Ducati 750 Sport be ridden out of the yard and out of his life for good. Fuck, that gorgeous yellow paintwork had shone up well. There was lots about his life that he'd forgotten, but he remembered when and where he'd bought every fucking bike that was in his garage. What was left of them, that was. This one, he'd gotten just after Rick and Lori's wedding. Restoring it had healed him from _that_ particular hurt.

Now it was gone, just like two of his Harleys, a Norton, and a little red Suzuki that he'd only had for a year or so. He turned around, surveying the garage that was now almost empty. He'd fill it again some day, he swore he would – but for now, this was enough to get Simon off his back for a while. He knew he'd fucked up when he got involved with a guy like that, but then part of him had always been drawn to self-destruction. And he had fuck all else to sell, so he'd listed all the bikes he could bear to give up in the local classifieds, and half-hoped nobody would get in touch.

Michonne would have given him good advice, he knew that. She'd always told him he should think about investing some of his earnings, for a start. He never had, of course. That was for rich assholes in suits – people with sports cars and secretaries.

Not for the first time, he thought about how much he missed her. He'd ignored her calls and texts, back in the days when he'd first gotten out of hospital. Ignored them long enough that in the end he was too guilty and embarrassed to get back in touch with her, scared that she'd tell him to fuck off if he ever did.

Every time he watched a race, he enjoyed seeing her on the pitwall, still gesturing and shouting, still as passionate about the sport at almost 50 as she had been when they'd first met. She'd hired some young rider called Alden – stolen him from Sanctuary, in fact – and Daryl was pleased to see Katana doing well. They'd never reached the giddy heights that they had when Daryl and Michonne had created an unstoppable force together, but they won several races a season, and Daryl could see that the Alden kid had potential.

He still felt bad about not replying back when he had received Michonne and Richard's wedding invite. He was happy for them, he was. Richard had given him the time of day when nobody else had. But even under the best of circumstances, he never would have gone to that wedding. Maybe if he and Rick had been... no, he wouldn't have gone even then. He'd never known any couple that was happily married, certainly not his parents, what with all his daddy's badly hidden philandering. And not Rick and Lori Grimes either. Maybe Hershel Green, but then his wife had been dead for years.

Maybe that was the secret, being kept apart when you didn't want to be.

As the beam from the Ducati's tail light finally disappeared, Daryl trudged back inside the cabin and went straight into the kitchen, where he rifled at the back of a cupboard, feeling around for the large glass jar that he knew was there somewhere. Been a long, long time since he'd had to resort to this, but when a neighbour with a still who lived a few miles through the woods had offered some of his home-made moonshine, Daryl hadn't resisted. His knuckles connected with something, but it felt like tin rather than glass. Wrapping his fingers around it, Daryl pulled out an old can of dog food. He stood for a few moments, not breathing, thinking of nothing but Jack.

He searched again, in need of a drink now more than ever, and within seconds, Daryl was sipping from a jar of the clear, eye-wateringly strong alcohol.

He kept drinking, passing out a little after midnight.

*

Lori smoothed a hand over her now very visible bump as she walked around the lounge of Rick's new house. Its walls were freshly plastered and painted, and the fireplace restored. The lack of furniture meant that her voice echoed as she spoke.

"You've done a great job, Rick," she smiled and turned towards him.

Unlike when she'd been pregnant with Carl, Lori seemed to be blooming this time around. Her normally sallow cheeks were rosy pink and her long hair was glossy. Obviously carrying Shane's child suited her better, Rick reflected. Outside, they could hear Carl bouncing a ball against the garden fence.

"It still needs a few months' work," he replied. "It'll be a while before it's safe enough for Carl to stay over."

"He can't wait," Lori said, following Rick into the kitchen.

"You want a coffee?" he asked. "I have enough means to make that – not much else yet, though."

Lori shook her head.

"Just water is fine. Coffee's making me a little sick this week."

Rick raised an eyebrow.

"Everything okay?"

"All good," she replied. She paused. "It's a little girl, did you know?"

Rick took a breath. He'd always liked the idea of having a girl to follow Carl. A little sister for him that he could tease and then protect as they got older.

"I didn't. I'm happy for you, congratulations."

Rick handed Lori her water. She took a small sip, and then blushed a little.

"Shane's buying everything pink. Already saying how she's going to be his little princess and that she's not going to be allowed to date, ever."

"I agree," Rick laughed. "Not about the pink stuff but certainly about the rest. You think he's going to be a good dad?"

"Yes," Lori replied without hesitation. "You've seen how good he is with Carl."

"Hmmph," Rick grumbled, but he knew Lori was right.

"If he's half as good a father as you..." Lori began. Rick avoided her eyes. "Plus, with you being her big brother's dad, you're going to always be in her life too, and... look, this might be weird – but would you consider being her godfather?"

Rick turned away from Lori, feeling his bottom lip begin to quiver. He didn't know why it was making him so emotional. He thought about Lori and Shane and their little baby, and about his dad and Michonne, who still spent their evenings with bottles of red wine and cuddles on the couch. And here he was, rattling around this old, falling-down house, living for the weeks that he had Carl.

He finally composed himself and placed a kiss on Lori's cheek.

"I would be honoured. I will do my best by her."

"I know you will," Lori nodded firmly. "There's no better man than you to do it."

She suddenly looked like she had remembered something, and opened her huge designer handbag. Rick rolled his eyes at the gaudy diamond ring on her finger. That aspect of Lori certainly hadn't changed.

She pulled out a gift-wrapped package, and handed it to him.

Rick looked at her, bemused, and began to peel off the tape.

"Something for the house, and for you," she explained.

Rick pulled out an empty wooden photo frame. Underneath was a new shirt that he unfolded and shook out. It was Western-style, dark grey and black plaid.

"You criticising my clothes?" he joked.

"I just thought you might suit it," she explained. "And I'm fed up of seeing you in t-shirts that are a size too big for you." Her face softened. "You need some nice clothes, Rick. This house is going to be beautiful when it's done, and I... it'd be nice to know you're sharing it with someone."

Rick looked at her wordlessly. She looked back, something on the edge of her lips that she didn't seem to want to say.

"I'm not..." he trailed off. "There's no-one, Lori."

"Well there should be," she said, a kindness in her voice that Rick wasn't used to hearing. "Whoever. I think it's about time."

She looked at her watch.

"I have to go, my mom is coming over later."

"She doing okay?" Lori's father had died a year and a half ago after a massive coronary while he'd been on the golf course.

"She's fine, this baby has given her something to focus on, you know?"

Rick would never have said so, but the passing of his former father in law had softened Lori and made her less selfish. They had a brief hug before she left, and then Rick walked upstairs to where he was painting what would be his bedroom. Lori had picked out the dove-grey paint, telling him that he couldn't be trusted to make his own decor choices. She was right, he supposed. As far as he was concerned, the wood and leather of Daryl's cabin was the only place he'd ever considered to be perfect.

He pulled off his t-shirt and laid out sheets of newspaper on the floor to set the tins of paint on top of. His dad had given him a week's worth of the local paper, and Rick carefully covered the floor, getting down on his hands and knees to make sure there were no gaps. He glanced briefly at the Classifieds, wondering if Lori was ready to let Carl get his first proper motorbike yet. He was about to stand up when an advert caught his eye.

_**1967 Triumph TR6C for sale** _

**__** _New clutches and valve guides. All original sheet metal and rechromed original Dunlop rims. Rare and highly valued. Quick sale needed to good home. No timewasters. No posers. Proper bikers only._

He thought about the day his dad had bought the Triumph that Daryl now owned. _Look at this beauty, Rick. A '67, she'll be something else when she's been fixed up._

His hands began to shake.

*

Daryl lifted his arm and sniffed under his t-shirt. Shit, when had he last had a shower? One week ago? Two? He wasn't sure, but he knew he'd been wearing the same ripped grey Iron Maiden t-shirt for several days in a row now.

He cleaned his teeth to get the taste of vomit from his mouth, then stepped into the shower, letting the hot water beat down onto his body. It helped the pain in his back a little, just not as much as Jack Daniels did.

Daryl used the last drops of his cheap bottle of shampoo and washed his whole body with it too. Michonne would be appalled if she knew, he reflected. She had always tried to get him to get fancy-ass haircuts, to wear cologne, to _groom_.

Getting out, he picked a damp green towel from off the floor and rubbed it over himself briefly before dropping it back down onto the tiles. In his bedroom, he pulled on a sleeveless black t-shirt and ripped grey jeans. He was gratified to find a half-full pack of Marlboros in the back pocket.

He swore as he heard his cellphone ringing, and padded quickly into the lounge where it was vibrating on the coffee table. He picked it up, answering it breathlessly.

"Yeah?"

"Hi, is that the guy selling the Triumph?"

"Yup."

Daryl tapped his foot impatiently. The man calling, he sounded too well-spoken compared to some of the folks who came to take his bikes away. Some fucking city type who was having a mid-life crisis and had decided to buy something way too fucking powerful for him, no doubt.

"Ya want it?" he snapped. Man, he'd dreaded somebody calling about that bike. All that work he'd put into it when he was a teenager. And more than that, it had belonged to Richard Grimes.

"Can I come look at it first?" the man asked. He was softly spoken and disarmingly polite. "I'm calling on behalf of a potential buyer I know, and I really think he needs to see it first."

Daryl sat down on the couch.

"Oh yeah? Ya look at a lot of bikes do ya?"

The voice at the other end of the line began to stutter.

"Oh... well... yes. Lots. Well, not lots. But some. I'd..."

"Okay," Daryl sighed. "I get it. If yer inta Triumphs, ya ever see an old Bonneville? One with an SS badge on the bottom of the tank?"

"No, I..."

"What did ya say yer name was?"

"It's... um... Sid. My name's Sid."

Daryl picked up a glass that had a tiny dribble of whisky left in it from the night before. He tipped it back.

"I'll give ya the address. Ya in Atlanta?"

"Yes."

"In that case, if ya ain't here within the next two hours, I ain't sellin'."

Daryl gave the caller the cabin's address and hung up. He felt heartsick at the thought that the Triumph might be gone in a matter of hours. He hoped that for some reason, it wouldn't sell like the others had. From the second he had laid eyes on it back at the Grimes ranch all those years ago, he'd been in love. It had been with him all through his time living there, his career, and now these past few years when he'd been completely alone.

And Rick. It was his last tie to Rick. Daryl didn't want to think about how that was maybe part of his reluctance to give it up too.

His cell beeped, and he picked it up, expecting the text message to be from Sid, saying he'd changed his mind.

_U still owe me money dixon_

Daryl slammed the phone back down. Simon, that psychotic fucking asshole. Biggest asshole he'd ever met, asides from that prick Negan. Daryl wasn't scared of a beating, he just wanted to be left alone. He rubbed the side of his head and winced. Sometimes the dull ache of the metal around his eye got to be too fucking much, and today was clearly going to be one of those days. Fuck, the Triumph was going to have to sell so Simon would get off his fucking back. Where the hell was this fucking buyer anyway?

He brewed up a pot of coffee and broke three eggs into a hot pan, putting slices of bread under the grill to toast. He cursed out loud as he opened the fridge, remembering that he'd eaten the last of the bacon several days before. He poked listlessly at the eggs with a spatula, before taking them off the heat and tipping them into the trash. He did the same with the toast. Coffee. He just needed coffee.

Daryl poured it into a chipped red mug and managed one sip before there was a knock at the door. About fucking time, he thought, walking barefoot through the lounge. He'd get this over and done with, get his money, and then hit the nearest bar so he could spend the day drinking away all his memories of that fucking bike.

He opened the door quickly, taking a step backwards when he saw the buyer.

"You've got ta be fuckin' kiddin'..." he groaned.

"Hello Daryl," Rick said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's Chapter 22 done. I have to admit, it's beginning to freak me out that the end is in sight now. I'm scared.
> 
> I'm not sure how long it will take me to write Chapter 23 because of the plans I have for it (heeeeeeeeee!). In the meantime, ugh, Rick is such a fucking mess. I think I feel sorrier for him than I do Daryl? Interested to hear what you all think x


End file.
